


Hunger Games: The Boardwalk

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hunger Games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Charlie is reaped in the Hunger Games, it will take a pair of unconventional mentors if he's going to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Charlie woke up with Filippia sprawled over his chest. Bart's elbow was prodding him in the back, as it usually was. They were both too big, nineteen and eighteen years old, with limbs too long and gangly to fit into one bed. It certainly wasn’t any more spacious with Filippia on top of him, even though he didn’t mind; he wouldn’t begrudge her anything. Besides, they all needed a little comfort on the day of the reaping. Connie was left alone in the girls’ bed on the other side of the room, her tiny frame huddled into a ball.  

“Hey,” Charlie whispered, poking Filippia in the cheek. She growled at him, wrapping her arms more tightly around his waist as she refused to move. “Flip, get offa me. I gotta piss.”  

With a sleepy, grudging grunt, she rolled over, occupying his spot next to Bart as Charlie slipped from the bed. He pulled a worn jacket around his shoulders, walking tenderly across the creaky, ashy floor, so as not to wake his siblings. No doubt they were in a tentative sleep already. It was difficult to get any rest the night before…  

Charlie himself had barely slept. The morning was still crisp as he sat out in front of their house, his thin shoulders slouched against the outer wall. It was his last reaping. All he had to do was get through this one, and he was in the clear—well, mostly. Flip still had three more years, and Connie was five away from being safe. Even if Charlie never went, they would always be in danger.  

Absentmindedly, he ran his fingers through the soot that coated the outside of their house. Everything was covered in a layer of fine, black dust from the mines. He didn’t know what it was like, to be without it on his body and in his hair. It was under his nails, and in his lungs, and it probably ran through his bloodstream. Some days—reaping days especially—Charlie felt like he was only cinder.  

At least the reaping meant he didn’t have to go down in the mines with his father and brothers, though that was a small consolation. He felt more trapped up there, with the Capitol’s presence, than he did underground in the darkness.  

He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, digging in the blackened dirt with his fingers. But the gray sky turned a slightly brighter shade of gray, as the sun came up, and the houses around him tentatively came alive. People were moving, which was as alive as anything ever got in District 12.  

“Charlie?”  

It was Flip. She sat down next to him, drawing her knees up to her chest.  

“You sleep okay?” he asked, but she shook her head.  

“Too worried about you,” she answered and leaned into his shoulder. Charlie wrapped his arm around her, pulling his sister close.  

“I’ll be fine—it’s my last one. Made it alright so far, haven’t I?” He forced a laugh and gave a wave of his free hand, as though he could brush the Games off like a speck of soot.  

She stared up at him, accusatory eyes underneath her bedraggled, dark hair. Her uneven brows were drawn into a look of utter skepticism—or, as Charlie liked to call it, her cut-the-bullshit stare.  

“But the tesserae—”  

“Hey, Joe and Bart made it fine. And their names was in there just as many times as mine.”  

Charlie’s older brothers had taken the risk, submitting their names more and more each year, in exchange for food to keep them all alive. Once they were too old, Charlie took up that burden whenever they fell short, which was always.  

He kept digging with his freehand, until there was a nice ditch about the size of his fist. If only it were large enough to crawl into… He didn’t want to tell Flip just how many times his name was really in there. It was too many for his liking, but he’d say anything to keep her spirits up through the day. Besides, maybe if nobody worried about it, it wouldn’t happen. Maybe their family would get through okay.  

“Come on.” Charlie got to his feet with a huff, offering his dirty hands down to his sister. She grabbed them and hoisted herself up. “Oughta get ready or somethin’. Gotta look sharp for all them people.” 

* * *

The siblings were separated as they arrived in square, herded into clumps by age to stand at attention throughout the reaping. The square itself was filled with the somber, ratty residents of District 12. The number of Peacekeepers was doubled for the day, camera crews from the Capitol flocked to high vantage points and swarmed through the crowd, and the large banners bearing the Capitol seal hung from every building.  

The makeshift stage in front of the Justice Building held their mayor, a representative from the Capitol, half a dozen Peacekeepers, and two large bowls that sent a shiver down Charlie’s spine. A large screen showed the crowd from various angles, their faces all drawn and staring forward dutifully. By then, they had learned. Charlie watched blankly as the reaping began. He wanted to imagine that he was somewhere else, but he couldn’t think of a place; all he had were visions of mines and decay.  

“Happy Hunger Games,” greeted District 12’s escort, Arnold Rothstein. He smiled slyly into the microphone as he spoke, his soft voice amplified eerily by the equipment.  

He was unsettling to look at, like everyone from the Capitol. Some of the ones Charlie had seen looked downright non-human. He couldn’t decide if the same were true of Rothstein. His face was subtly tattooed, sharp lines drawn across his features, until it was parsed into sections. With his slicked, glistening hair, and his overlarge bow tie, he resembled some sort of doll or puppet. His cheeks were rouged into bright circles and it was rumored that his neat rows of pointed teeth were false.  

Charlie had never liked Rothstein much; he always gave him the creeps. Maybe it just wasn’t possible to like such a man, to like someone who turned up each year to collect two children at random and lead them to their deaths.  

Or maybe it was the way those actions never seem to bother him. Every year since Charlie could remember, Rothstein had worn the same expression of quiet amusement. There was no sign of remorse, no sign of sadness for all the previous deaths from their District. Rothstein just offered his sharp-toothed smile and welcomed them, his broad bow tie secure beneath his chin.  

“And may the odds be ever in your favor,” Rothstein continued.  

There was a hint of irony to his voice; Charlie suspected that Rothstein was the sort of man always favored by the odds.  

Since District 12 had no victor until last year's Games, Rothstein had been assigned to mentor their tributes instead. But that man had never competed. He knew nothing but the luxury of the Capitol. To him, the Games were just sport—and, like all of Rothstein’s hobbies, he knew the rules inside and out. It was said that he gambled heavily, even though he wasn’t supposed to. Given District 12’s lack of success under his tutelage and Rothstein’s apparent wealth, Charlie wondered who he was really betting on.  

He recited the same speech, as was custom, but all Charlie could think about were the names in the bowl. He wanted to crane his neck, to look around for Flip or Connie. But he didn’t dare move; none of them did. He was crammed in with the other eighteen-year-olds, all of them afraid to even breathe, as though drawing attention to their bodies would draw Rothstein’s hand towards their names.  

“Shall we start with the girls?”  

As though they had a choice in the matter.  

Rothstein walked slowly towards the bowl, brushing back his sleeve with a flourish of his hand. He reached into its depth, fishing around as he willfully created suspense. It was almost like he enjoyed himself.  

Charlie held his breath as he withdrew, chanting _not Flip, not Connie,_ over and over in his mind.  

“Anna Citron,” Rothstein read into the microphone.  

He exhaled, unable to stop himself from smiling with relief. They were safe. His sisters were safe for another year.  

The crowd, however, was not as pleased. Everyone was looking around hurriedly, to catch a glimpse of District 12’s first tribute. Charlie furrowed his brow; no one seemed like they were moving.  

But then he finally saw her—thirteen years old, a little wisp of a thing, visibly trembling from head to toe as she mounted the stairs to the stage. She was no older than Connie. And she was going to die.  

Charlie nearly felt sorry for her, except he didn’t have much room for spare empathy, when he was too busy worrying about his own family. Besides, District 12 only had one victor, and he had been the underdog, too. Maybe she’d be okay.  

But, as the girl nearly collapsed with fright upon shaking Rothstein’s hand, Charlie had his doubts about her survival. Another year of bad luck for District 12, it looked like. Still, at least his family was safe.  

“Salvatore Lucania.”  

Charlie froze.  

That wasn’t his name. That wasn’t him. Nobody called him that, nobody but his father. He swallowed as the crowd started to part around him, to let him through. But Charlie couldn’t move. He hadn’t even _noticed_ Rothstein drawing the next name. He’d been too busy thinking about the girl on stage, and his sisters, and—  

And his sisters.  

He turned around, spinning through other eighteen-year-olds who were all alive with glee, because they were finally safe for good. Charlie was chosen and they were finally safe. He wanted to catch an eye, somebody’s eye, anybody’s eye who knew him. He wanted somebody who would shout, _“His name’s not Salvatore, it’s Charlie now, so you can’t have him!”_   

“Salvatore?” Rothstein repeated, with a pressing sternness, when still no one had come forward.  

Nobody called him that but his father. How fitting, that it should be the name to summon him to death.  

Charlie always thought, if he got picked, that he’d be brave. He’d square his shoulders and walk right up there, big and strong. He’d shake Rothstein’s hand firmly and no matter how he felt inside, he wouldn’t let them see him scared.  

But he didn’t think he looked that way, as he walked towards the stage, numbness reaching through his whole body. Rothstein offered his hand; Charlie just stared at him. He looked different up close, more wolfish than Charlie had ever realized. Rothstein reached towards Charlie’s side, grabbing his limp hand, and shaking it firmly while Charlie just wobbled in his grip.  

“Ch-Charlie,” he stammered at Rothstein, even though he hadn’t been addressed.  

“What?” Rothstein’s cool visage wrinkled with confusion.  

“My name. It says Salvatore, but that ain’t right, ‘cause I’m Charlie. That’s what I like people callin’ me.”  

Rothstein looked taken aback for a second, before patting Charlie on the back and reintroducing him to the crowd. Only after, as Charlie dropped into the chair besides Anna, did he realize that he interrupted an official ceremony to tell the whole of Panem that the Capitol had his name wrong.  

Rothstein continued addressing the crowd, but Charlie couldn’t listen. Speeches were given. The anthem played. He glanced towards the little girl next to him. She was tiny, thin, and underfed.  

Charlie felt about the same size.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter one on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/67782150253/hunger-games-the-boardwalk-chapter-1)


	2. Chapter 2

The Peacekeepers led them into the Justice building after the ceremony, where they would say goodbye to their families before departing for the Capitol. He didn’t pay much mind to Anna’s parents as they rushed in and embraced the sobbing girl. He kept his eyes on the door, until his own crowd of people burst in.  

Flip tore across the room and flung herself around Charlie’s middle. She squeezed him tight, crying into his chest.  

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. I’ll be fine. I’m tough, you know that.” Charlie patted her back, trying to soothe her even as a lump formed in his throat. But if this was the last she ever saw of him…  

Wiping her eyes, she stepped back and gave him a watery, uncertain smile. “Yeah, sure. You’re gonna give ‘em hell, Charlie.”  

He could tell she was thinking the same thing as him. If they were going to part, it would be with half-smirks and brave faces, not tears. That’s how they got through everything else together, anyway.  

His mother wasn’t half so collected as she assumed Flip’s place, squeezing him and kissing him everywhere. She rocked him back and forth in her arms, tears streaking down her cheeks as she stroked her fingers desperately through his hair. He murmured words of assurance he didn’t believe—he had a real chance, he’d make her proud, they’d all be okay—just to keep from breaking down himself.  

Connie clung to his hand and Joe gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. Bart stared at him, unable to speak, a look on his face like he couldn’t imagine Charlie going away. They bickered more often than they got along, but he guessed they’d always taken one another’s presence for granted. He was always there.  

“At least you get the bed all to yourself,” Charlie offered with a forced grin. Bart laughed even though it wasn’t funny.  

He stared over all their heads at his father, standing still and silent at the back. The man shouldered forwards, grasping Charlie’s hand firmly. “Salvatore,” he said. Charlie nodded stiffly. He wished his father would use a name that hadn’t just been on his death sentence to all of Panem.  

Their time ran out quickly. The Peacekeepers were trying to move Charlie and Anna along again. Flip and his mother fought for hugging space. Charlie clung to them both, curling his fingers into their clothes and burying his face into Flip’s hair. It was the one thing he didn’t want to say, that he refused to acknowledge, but she deserved to hear. “Bye, Flip,” he whispered as he stepped back from her arms.  

She stared after him, lips quivering. “Good luck.”  

“Ain’t I always lucky?” he asked with a rueful smile. She returned it, as the Peacekeepers took him by the shoulders and led him from the room. 

* * *

The train station was crowded with cameras, prodding into his face, as crew members shouted questions at him. Rothstein kept a tight grasp on Charlie’s arm, guiding him. “Eyes ahead,” he instructed through the corner of his mouth.  

Charlie’s jaw fell slack as Rothstein led him onto the train. He had never seen anything like it, not in person. Everything was sleek, made from some kind of polished metal Charlie couldn’t identify. The doors retracted smooth as running water to let him pass.  

Once they shut behind him, however, the wonder disappeared.  

He was on that train. He was going to the Capitol. He was stuck. 

“Would you like to see your bedrooms first, perhaps… change?” Rothstein suggested without bothering to veil his disapproval at their current attire. “Following, we can meet together to discuss the proceedings.”  

Insulted though he was at Rothstein’s scathing remarks on the state of their hygiene and dress, Charlie was glad of the opportunity to be completely on his own for the first time since that morning. He hurried into his temporary bedroom—the first time one had ever been his entirely.  

Charlie shuddered and hugged his arms across his chest. His body trembled and he sunk to his knees, struggling to restrain the choking sobs that wracked his throat regardless. It already felt like several lifetimes ago that he sat with Flip outside their house, talking in low voices with only a numb awareness of the impending reaping. The dirt from his idle digging was still under his nails, and yet, it had happened years and years and years before. He couldn’t believe he’d woken up just that morning with Flip sprawled across his chest, and now he would never see her again. He’d never see any of them again.  

 _“Give ‘em hell, Charlie.”_  

Yeah, he was doing such a good job of that so far. This wasn’t how he wanted it to be. He grit his teeth. Charlie was thin and ill-nourished, but he was big. He could train. He knew how to work hard; he’d been doing it everyday for as long as he could remember. He heaved himself up from the ground with dirty, well-calloused hands, unconcerned about the streaks he left in the pristine carpet.  

He’d give them hell. Because if he had to die, he wouldn’t do it like a coward. He’d show them that a boy from District 12 could fight as well as any of them. Wasn't that what happened last year? Even if he didn't make it, he'd show them what a fight looked like.  

He was still shaking as he stumbled into the shower, but his jaw was set. He stood under the running water—after his initial surprise, since he’d never had a shower before—and watched as the water pooled around his feet, tepid and grey with grime. It was the dirt of hard work, the signs that they’d been trying to break Charlie for years, and they hadn’t yet. And they wouldn’t. 

He stared until the water turned crystalline. Only then, did Charlie start to scrub himself down, rubbing a suffocatingly aromatic soap over his body and through his thick hair.  

Charlie dressed in the first clothes he grabbed, ruffling a damp towel over his head. His hair stuck up in a pouffy mound. He scowled at it, knowing Rothstein would disapprove of his disarray, but he could shove it up his Capitol ass. He bet shit didn’t even stink in the Capitol.  

He was a little unsteady on his feet as he walked through the train. The blurred image of Panem outside the windows made his head spin until he needed the wall for support. The train itself was as smooth as silk—but it was so _fast._  

“So, what you wanna talk about?” Charlie said by way of announcing his presence, as he stepped into the dining car. Rothstein was sitting with the young kid Charlie recognized from last year’s Games. He looked even scrawnier in person—and Charlie remembered how tiny he seemed during last year's Games. Rothstein had an ornate glass in his hands, filled with a white liquid Charlie could only identify as milk. The little boy drank alcohol.  

“Charlie,” Rothstein greeted. The smile made him shudder. “That’s your name, is it? Charlie?’  

“Yeah.” He gave a gruff nod and thrust out his hand towards Rothstein. He wasn’t as shocked now; he didn’t want Rothstein to think he was weak.  

“Arnold Rothstein, your Capitol escort.” He grasped Charlie’s hand briefly, something like amusement in his eyes. Rothstein gestured to the young boy. “And, as I’m sure you know, this is Meyer Lansky, your mentor.”  

 _“What!”_ Charlie demanded, stepping back from them both. “But you’re my mentor! You mentor all the kids from District 12! I can’t have _him—”_  

Rothstein held up his hand. “I have mentored tributes from District 12 only in the absence of a victor who may fulfill that role. I should think the changes would be obvious to you. Meyer won the previous Games. District 12 has a victor and _you_ have a mentor.”  

“His balls ain’t even dropped yet!” Charlie whined. Rothstein’s well-manicured brows shot up in surprise, but he was not given the opportunity to reprimand. Meyer’s voice cut across him.  

“And I’ve already killed six people, so that makes me a hell of a lot more qualified than you.”  

Meyer sounded rough and aggressive, but his voice was quieter than Charlie would have thought. All the same, it pierced all their bickering and left a silence hanging throughout the train car. Neither of them dared to speak after Meyer.  

Charlie instead dropped gracelessly into a chair beside Rothstein, to hide just how sick and wobbly the train’s speed was making him feel. He kept his gaze on his lap, away from Panem flying past. He wondered which District they were in. He wondered how far he was from home.  

He glanced up nervously; Meyer was still watching him, with a look like he would very much want to raise his number from six to seven. Charlie wished he had something to do with his hands.  

He was spared, thankfully, from coming up with a response. The door slid open and Anna entered the room. Her breathing was still a little irregular, but Charlie could see she had gone through great pains to hide all evidence of her crying before entering the car. He admired that.  

Her resolve, however, didn’t last long. Rothstein repeated the same introductions he’d given Charlie. No sooner had he done that, Anna burst into tears and ran from the room.  

Meyer sighed heavily and dropped his glass with an obviously-irked thud onto the end table. He rose to his feet and strode— without look or explanation— towards the door. He moved too slowly, with too much care, for a boy his age.  

Charlie continued staring after him, once he was left alone with Rothstein.  

“Childhood friends, I am to understand.”  

“Huh?” Charlie looked around again.  

“Meyer has confided in me that Anna is a friend of his family’s, and that they’ve known each other for a very long time. Had you known either of them previously?” Rothstein took a sip of his milk and offered Charlie an array of refreshments. He selected what looked like a bottle of red smoke and drank hesitantly.  

“I don’t know either of ‘em. Maybe Connie—that’s my sister, _well,_ one of my sisters—maybe she knows ‘em, ‘cause they’re the same age. Probably not, though. We’re from the Seam.”  

Rothstein didn’t look as though he understood Charlie’s meaning.  

“It’s a different part of town, is all. Not so nice. I think Lansky come from there, before he won, but Anna sure ain’t Seam.”  

Rothstein nodded without much comprehension. No doubt the subtle class politics of Charlie’s home district were of no importance to a Capitol man like him. They sat in silence from then on. Rothstein was making notes to himself, occasionally pausing to stare into the distance and shift his fingers back and forth, as though he could turn through the thoughts in his mind like pieces of paper.  

Charlie traced the pattern of the chair with the tip of his finger, thinking only about how he was well and truly fucked.  

Meyer Lansky was his mentor. A thirteen-year-old with a sour attitude and a drinking problem. Worse, he was Anna’s friend. Mentors all knew they could save only one tribute in the end, and Charlie bet that he wouldn’t be that kid’s first pick.  

He remembered watching those Games just last year. Everyone had felt sad when they’d picked Meyer; no one wanted to see a twelve-year-old going off to the Capitol. He was remarkably short for his age, too, which made him seem even younger. During the opening ceremony, Meyer’s frame had nearly drowned amongst the older, stronger tributes and the grandeur of the Capitol.  

They all would have forgotten about little Meyer from District 12, looked him over with the understanding that he would die in the initial bloodbath.  

Until he received a training score of 10.  

Nobody could figure out what a wiry boy like that had done to impress, but he had certainly impressed somebody. He was eloquent in his interview— borderline _charming,_ even pleasant. Meyer went from a forgettable face to a crowd favorite in an instant; no doubt Rothstein had to change his bets.  

Nobody expected the kid to be so ruthless, either. He teamed up with both tributes from District 3 right away. They fled from the initial bloodbath, doubling back to make shelter in the Cornucopia while the Career pack left to hunt down the other tributes. They made a shelter, Meyer talked to them about the electrical equipment and wiring left behind when the Cornucopia had been ravaged, and once they explained it to him, Meyer killed them both before either could react.  

And then he disappeared. The cameras came back to him from time to time, but Meyer just sat there, waiting. He played with the wiring, and no one really knew what was going on. The Gamemakers sent a pack of Mutt wolves to chase him out—but Meyer somehow used the metal of the Cornucopia to electrocute the whole pack. He slept well that night beneath a pile of pelts.  

That arena had been a frozen tundra, with wisps of underbrush, a harsh wind, and only the dips and swells of a hilly terrain to interrupt the otherwise open landscape. The boy with so much promise stayed put and let the tributes come to him. He electrocuted the pair from District 7 and slit the throat of a girl from 4.  

He made it until the final five. And then, three tributes died as the tundra gave way, revealing a frozen lake beneath. They either froze to death or drowned. Only Meyer—safe in the Cornucopia—and a brutish, District 1 tribute called Gyp remained.  

The eighteen-year-old was nearly three times Meyer’s height, and easily twice as wide, with his broad shoulders and thuggish arms. Charlie and the rest of Panem had watched him kill four tributes with his bare hands, strangling them each to death without a moment’s hesitation. He’d even set one tribute aflame. Gyp was the Capitol favorite, with his brutality and savage glee for killing. All the hope that had been bubbling in District 12 was gone; they knew Meyer would never make it against a kid like that.  

Gyp shouted and taunted as he approached the Cornucopia, a swagger in his step. He made no attempt to hide his approach, and no secret of all the brutal things he was going to do to Meyer.  

Charlie remembered holding his breath as Gyp, armed with a heavy mace, strode through the mouth of the Cornucopia.  

But Meyer was nowhere to be seen.  

All of Panem caught sight of him at once, sprinting across the tundra towards the frozen lake where the other tributes drowned. He had slipped out of the Cornucopia as Gyp neared, using the large structure to shield himself from view, and took off running as fast as he could. His wires were too frozen over and provided no defense, and Gyp soon began sprinting after him.  

Meyer scurried across the ice, stopping only when he’d reached the middle of the lake, and wheeled to face Gyp. The little thing lunged, knife bared, and buried it up to the hilt in Gyp’s forearm. Gyp screamed, flailed, and brought the mace down onto the ice; they both went under.  

It looked like Meyer had been counting on Gyp’s weight to send him through, but he wasn’t prepared to go under himself. The two of them struggled in the freezing water, Gyp shoving Meyer farther and farther down before kicking back up to the surface. Charlie thought it was the end of their tribute. Not many from District 12 ever learned to swim, and little Meyer was drifting away from the opening. Gyp hurled himself back onto dry land, heaving and shaking and fumbling for his weapon. Meyer—miraculously—emerged and threw himself atop Gyp.  

They struggled and fought and rolled across the ice, Gyp’s hands closing around Meyer’s throat more than once. But each time, the boy managed to wriggle free. Ice and blood made it hard to get their footing. Charlie could barely see what was occuring in the flurry of limbs, and it all moved too quickly.  

But he would never forget when it happened. Gyp fell. Meyer lunged. And over and over, Meyer hit Gyp with his own mace, blood splattering across his body and into the snow. Meyer's face never changed. A canon sounded. Meyer did not stop, until Gyp’s body was pummeled beyond recognition.  

Only then did Meyer fall back against the ice, breathless, bloody, and triumphant.  

The door opened, and Anna and Meyer returned to the car. Charlie glanced up at him—at the white scar lines peeking out above his shirt, at the hard look in his still-soft boyish face, and at the left arm hanging stiffly by his side. It had been amputated after the Game, completely lost to frostbite, and replaced with a prosthetic that looked real in everything but usage. Meyer only moved it when he had to; otherwise, he acted like he only had his right.  

Maybe it was just the lurch of the train, but Charlie felt sick to his stomach.  

“Can we begin? Or are you still not interested in what I have to tell you, to save your life?” Meyer asked, voice flat, as he sat opposite Charlie and looked him dead in the eye.  

Charlie swallowed and nodded. “Go on, Little Man. Tell me what you got.”  

Meyer quirked a brow at the title, a humorless smile on his lips. Charlie offered his hand. Meyer stared at it, considered Charlie, and then shook. “Alright, Charlie. Alright.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/70055501335/hunger-games-the-boardwalk-chapter-2)


	3. Chapter 3

Meyer talked until dinner. He spoke slowly, somberly, keeping his head bowed and eyes trained on the bottle still clutched in his hands. He wasn’t drinking it; he just stared at the neck, at his fingers curled around it. Charlie listened with rapt attention as Meyer reviewed everything that would happen in the Capitol and everything they needed before the Games—their training, the interviews, sponsors. Charlie wanted to hear about the Games themselves, about the moment he stepped into the arena, and how to kill. But Meyer—with his downcast eyes—didn’t appear ready for that yet. He sensed that it was only Rothstein, who prompted Meyer to continue whenever he lapsed into a pause, that kept the conversation going. 

“Why don’t we eat?” Rothstein suggested at last, when the blurs outside the train windows grew darker and more indistinct. “We can watch the recap of the reaping and talk about your opponents.” 

There was a murmur of agreement, followed by hesitation, as everyone waited for everyone else to make the first move. Rothstein took the lead; he sighed and stood, and they all shuffled after him into the dining car. 

Charlie’s mouth fell open. The table within was laid with trays upon trays, all gleaming silver, with steaming bowls and overflowing plates, and more food than he had ever seen in his entire life. He guessed it was more than his whole family ate in a month and more variety than he even knew existed. 

Rothstein smiled knowingly. “Enjoy. We’ll continue once you’re full.” 

Charlie and Anna wasted no time. She tried to demonstrate some manners, at first, but Charlie filled his plate to the point of excess and ate with alacrity. He hardly bothered about utensils or about making a mess; it wasn’t long before he dove back for seconds. Anna followed suit, and the pair of them gobbled desperately, led by the overwhelming curiosity to experience fullness, for the first time in either of their lives. 

Rothstein and Meyer were much more reserved. They took their time and cut their food, with no sense of hurry about the pair of them. Charlie noticed—between his own monumental mouthfuls—that Meyer hardly seemed to eat much at all. It was no wonder the boy still looked as skinny as when he’d left the arena. 

A wide screen on the nearest wall switched on, displaying the shimmering Capitol Seal. The commentator for the Games—well-known personality Eddie Cantor, whose doll-like make up resembled Rothstein’s—grinned and waved and flounced about the stage in greeting. 

Charlie turned back to his dinner (they were apparently called _sweet potatoes_ and they were delicious) while Eddie Cantor gave his usual introductions. He knew the words by now anyway; he had been watching that exuberant personality and those protuberant eyes each Hunger Games for as long as he could remember. 

“I never knew there was animals big enough to get that much meat,” Charlie commented, pointing a broccoli-laden fork to the large roast in the center of the table. “Better than squirrel, huh?” He smiled when Anna giggled into her hand. Even Meyer glanced up at him, but his expression was unreadable. 

Rothstein just hummed in uncertain agreement, sawing at his own dinner with a knife. “Well, eat as much as you can. You can be certain tributes from the wealthier districts will be larger and stronger.” 

Heeding that advice, Charlie dumped the remainder of a bowl of carrots onto his plate. 

“Your biggest threat is the Careers—districts one, two, and four,” Rothstein continued, as he delicately slipped the fork between his lips. It was frightful, the ease with which his teeth could chew threw meat. “Nobody is supposed to train for the Games, but they do anyway.” 

Through a mouthful of potato, Charlie garbled that he knew. Rothstein cringed as he watched Charlie’s mouth. He bristled with disgust, but continued. “Now, I’ve got a delicate truce with the mentor from District One, by the name of Joe Masseria, so you may be able to get in with his tributes. But the others will definitely be your enemies.” 

“But the one of them is just a kid!” Charlie spat, showering Rothstein in potato. He remembered watching District 1’s reaping that morning… and then he remembered Anna and Meyer on either side of him. 

Rothstein smiled humorlessly and wiped himself off with a napkin. “The male tribute is Meyer’s age, who, need I remind you, has already won. It is rare that District One isn’t a set of eighteen-year-old volunteers. If no one stepped up, that means this boy is good. Either he’s smart like Meyer—” 

Meyer interrupted him to scoff. “Nobody’s smart like me, AR.” 

Charlie scowled petulantly. _Nobody’s smart like me, nobody’s smart like me._ Yeah, fuckin’ brilliant for him. 

But Rothstein was not as perturbed. “Then that means he’s just as vicious. You’ll want him as an ally.” As he spoke in soft tones, the recap began on the screen. Rothstein directed their attention with the end of his knife. They were showing footage of the boy in question. He was obviously young and obviously eager. He strode across the stage with pride, taking the microphone from his escort, and introducing himself to Panem as Benny Siegel, followed by a whoop of excitement. 

Irritably, Charlie bit a carrot in half. “Don’t know that I want him as an ally. He’s an ass.” He couldn’t fathom how anyone could be _eager_ to compete in the Games. It was disgusting. 

“Better your ally than your enemy,” Meyer countered without looking away from the screen. 

Charlie grunted; it was easier than agreeing. Eddie Cantor began discussing District 2, where a burly eighteen-year-old named Al and a pretty older girl by the name of Pearl were picked. “You got any special connections with that one or somethin’?” he asked, hopeful. An eighteen-year-old asshole seemed better than one who was only thirteen. 

But Rothstein shook his head. “Torrio? Somewhat. Though perhaps you could forge an alliance on your own—” 

Charlie didn’t need Meyer’s obvious scoff to tell him that was a dumb idea. No Career like that would want someone from an outlying district by his side. 

“Just gotta get him before he gets me, huh?” Charlie asked in an attempt at humor. There was not so much as a smile around the table. He stabbed another turkey breast and bit it straight from the end of his knife. 

They continued watching the recap, with Eddie Cantor’s commentary overlaid by snippets of information from Rothstein—which mentors he liked, which he didn’t, memories of past tributes, and expectations for their skills and abilities. He was voraciously scribbling notes to himself, as Charlie glanced across the table. All he caught were sets of numbers; Rothstein was guessing at their odds already. 

There was a tremendous groan of disapproval when Eddie Cantor introduced District Four. “Nucky Thompson,” Rothstein muttered derisively. “Kill his tributes first, would you?” 

“Mr. Thompson has more victors than half the other districts put together,” Meyer explained, giving Charlie a brief glance. Rothstein looked as though he still had the stench of District 12 under his nose. “AR’s got something of a… rivalry, you might say.” 

Charlie squinted at the pair of tributes—a round-faced boy named Owen, a frizzy-headed girl named Billie. He slouched down in his chair and chewed viciously at another slice from the roast. “Don’t look too tough to me.” 

But he knew from years of spectating that District 4 usually won. He wouldn’t be so quick to write either of them off in the arena. But it was so much easier, for now, to look down his nose at the small figures on screen and imagine they were nothing. Charlie noticed a tight smile just before it disappeared from Meyer’s lips. “Whaddyou think, Meyer? Bet I can take ‘em?” 

Meyer exhaled loudly, in what might have been a laugh. “I’ll leave the betting up to AR.” But there was that almost-smile again, threatening at the corners. 

Charlie didn’t have too long to feel pleased with himself, as Eddie Cantor adopted a somber expression. “Now, here’s an interesting twist, ladies and gentlemen. From District Five, we have Jimmy Darmody, who is the son of Gillian—you all remember Gillian, don’t you?” 

Footage of a young girl—hands quivering around a bow and arrow—flashed on the screen. The arrow landed in a boy’s shoulder and he fell; she rushed forward and wrestled him into the nearby river. Though she was slight in stature, her opponent was hurt and she forced him under the water until the canons fired. 

“Still one of my favorite Games,” Eddie Cantor said wistfully. “And our youngest victor—until last year, of course.” 

The image of a little girl was replaced with a much older woman—redheaded, beautiful, with a hint of a smile on her lips and a look of ferocity in her eyes. 

“Now, as I understand it, she’ll be mentoring her own son for the upcoming Games,” Eddie explained. Meyer let out a low whistle, taking a long drink from his glass. Rothstein sighed and shook his head. 

“That’s bad luck,” Anna said softly, a look of sympathy in her eyes. Meyer gave a rough laugh that surprised them all. 

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he scoffed. Teeth barred, he unscrewed another bottle and refilled his glass. Charlie opened his mouth, but he thought better once he caught Rothstein’s expression—warning, with just a twinge of pity. Everyone fell silent, save for Eddie Cantor. 

Somewhere around District 8, Charlie finally pushed his plate away, satiated to the point of discomfort. He had never eaten so much in his life, nor had he ever tasted anything so succulent. The remainder of the reaping recap passed without incident; Meyer remained quiet, while Rothstein offered what little advice he could. He knew mentors, not tributes, and could only hazard a guess based on appearances and past Games. 

Finally, images of District 12’s dusty square filled the screen. Charlie tensed as he watched Rothstein greet the crowd, saw the buzz of worry as Anna mounted the stage, and grimaced as his own face appeared on screen. He didn’t look like much of a threat, all slouched-over and thin. To his surprise, however, his voice sounded clear and crisp—almost indifferent—as he blurted, “It says Salvatore, but that ain’t right.”  

Eddie Cantor’s voice drowned out the rest of District 12’s proceedings. “So there you have it. Anna and Salvatore—Or, shall I say, Charlie?” He laughed, high and bright, like he was having the time of his life with shall-I-say-Charlie. 

“What’s so funny about that?” he demanded. So he didn’t like the name his parents gave him? Why did that matter? 

“All of the Capitol’s records say Salvatore. And you just spat all over it.” It was the first thing Meyer had said since District 5. 

Charlie stared at him, mouth agape. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not ‘cause—I don’t think like that, it’s just—Is it really such a big deal?” 

“Of course it isn’t,” Meyer answered in that same biting tone. But Charlie didn’t shrink from him. Meyer’s anger felt foreign; it was for someone else, not for him. “Simplest thing in the world, or it should be. But the Capitol—touchy bastards, all of them.” 

He paused, took another drink, and stared past Charlie. He glanced back to follow his gaze, but there was nothing but darkness rushing past the windows. “I say the Capitol deserves a good spitting on.” 

“Meyer…” Rothstein’s voice was warning. The pair exchanged a look—and with it, a silent conversation—before Rothstein’s smile was back in place and he was corralling Charlie and Anna away from the table and off to their respective bedrooms. “Tomorrow we arrive at the Capitol. You’ll need to be well-rested and looking sharp. Off to bed.” 

As they reached their bedroom doors, Anna turned suddenly to Charlie. “Goodnight,” she said, with a gentle smile. 

Charlie paused. It was the first time they had ever spoken directly to one another, been alone without cameras and mentors and all that fuss. He gave a low chuckle and reached out to ruffle her hair, the way he always did to tease Flip. “Sleep good, kid.” 

He retreated into his room. For a moment, he stared at the blurred image of Panem in the blackness of the window, and then at the large bed that was entirely his own. He had never—not in his whole memory—had a bed to himself. There were always siblings crowding in beside him. He kicked his shoes across the room and uncertainly removed the remainder of his clothing, leaving them in a heap on the floor. 

Although the bed was inexpressibly comfortable, and the blankets beautifully warm, sleep did not come quickly to Charlie. He lay awake, eyes squeezed shut, hoping… He heard footsteps in the hall and the low voices of Rothstein and Meyer bidding each other goodnight. He bet they probably slept nice and easy, without a care in the world… 

When Charlie did fall asleep, he dreamt he was running the length of the train as the floor fell out from beneath him. Meyer laughed as he tumbled to the tracks—his little face painted like Rothstein’s—while a redheaded girl in the distance screamed and screamed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter three on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/90224927279/hunger-games-the-boardwalk-chapter-3)


	4. Chapter 4

A heavy pounding woke Charlie from sleep. “We’re arriving in the Capitol in thirty minutes. Are you ready?” Rothstein’s voice called through the door. Charlie shouted back that he was absolutely prepared, as he scrambled from bed and toppled to the floor with a thud. Rothstein gave an obvious sigh on the other side of the door—no doubt second-guessing Charlie’s chances of staying alive if he could barely get out of bed on time and in one piece. 

Hurriedly, Charlie threw on his crumpled clothes from the reaping and ran the length of the train to the dining car, where the others were gathered. 

Anna—dressed nice and neat, with her hair curled and tucked away—stared up at him and stifled a giggle. She pointed at her head, and then at his. Charlie caught his reflection in the polished silver of his plate and laughed at himself. His hair stood at all ends, puffed up in some places more than others depending on how he slept, with wild curls twisting defiantly out of his head. 

“Tryin’ to start a new trend in the Capitol. Like it?” he asked Anna, and she smiled. Somehow, it made him feel a little better when she smiled. That way, she was like a little girl—happy, laughing, and not facing her death. It's what he always did at home when it got too grim. 

“Is this a joke to you?” Meyer had entered the car. Before Charlie could answer, he crossed the room, grabbed Charlie’s glass of water, and dumped it over his head. “Flatten your hair. There will be cameras at the station.” 

Charlie sputtered and cursed, swatting him out of instinct. Meyer grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm back; Charlie grit his teeth in pain. “You outta your fuckin’ mind? Let go! You wanna break my arm or somethin’?”  Rothstein and Anna were both shouting for them to behave, but neither were listening. 

“I want to save your life,” Meyer growled. He dug his nails into Charlie’s skin, and then let go. “Get your guard up. The Games start long before the arena.” 

Charlie glared and rubbed his wrist. All the same, he flattened his hair down; he scowled throughout breakfast and didn’t say a word until the train car suddenly went black. They were zooming through the mountains, nearing the Capitol. Charlie’s anger changed to dread and disbelief with the thought of actually arriving _at the Capitol,_ of actually seeing it in person. He and Anna both hurried to the window, noses against the glass. 

In an instant, the darkness gave way to blinding sunlight as they resurfaced alongside the Capitol. Enormous beyond belief, glittering with rare metals and pristine designs, it was more magnificent than Charlie could have imagined, and more terrifying for its excess. “That’s one hell of a city…” he breathed. He had never known anything more impressive than District 12’s Justice Building—and there he was, staring down all the wealth of Panem. 

“Come along.” Rothstein’s hand was on his back. The train pulled into the station—full of cameras and eager spectators, just as Meyer said. “Stay close.” 

* * *

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me…” 

Charlie didn’t know what that device was, but he knew he didn’t want it anywhere near his eyebrows. Carolyn insisted, holding his head steady with slightly-taloned fingers. He winced as it buzzed into life, humming far too close to his eyeball for comfort. 

“Much better,” she cooed as she finished. “You look much more like a real person without those horrible bushes on your face.” 

Charlie thought that was a little hypocritical, coming from someone like her. He couldn’t tell if her body was dyed a pale shade of lavender, or if her hair was simply so vibrantly purple that it reflected on her skin, too. But he wasn’t about to say something like that—not with Rothstein’s instructions ringing in his ears. 

_“This is your stylist, and my wife. Do everything she tells you, and I’ll do everything I can to save your life. Understood?”_

Carolyn set the tool aside and instead prodded at Charlie’s face with the tips of her fingers. He went cross-eyed trying to look at her, as she squinted and inspected every bit of him. “Your pores are simply dreadful, dear,” she commented. 

“I work in a _mine._ ” 

Carolyn smiled. Charlie thought she might have been pretty under all those Capitol fashions, but it was hard to tell. “Well, once I’m through, you won’t know that.” She had another tool in her hands—this one sharper and more lethal-looking than the last. “I promise, this won’t hurt a bit.” 

She pressed it into Charlie’s skin; for a split second, he was convinced he had been set on fire. But no matter how much he thrashed and cursed, Carolyn persisted, a look of determination in her eyes that made Charlie thankful he wasn’t facing _her_ in the arena. 

“There,” she praised. She patted Charlie’s cheek fondly and he winced. “You look lovely.” 

She set a mirror in his hands for him to inspect. Charlie held it close to his face, turning it from angle to angle, a look of mingled surprise and horror forming. “Did you clean my pores or get rid of them?” 

He was half-kidding, but Carolyn responded “yes” without looking up.  

“Now, for the Tribute Parade, I thought we might do something a little different this year.” There was something playful in her look, a smile at her lips, and Charlie found himself more nervous than relieved by her mood. 

“I thought we was always dressed as miners?” he asked, suspicious. 

She laughed, grabbed him by the hand, and yanked him to his feet. “Usually. But District 12 was the winner last year and Arnold says you have a real chance.” She began pacing around him, continuing her examination and jotting notes in a hurried, scrawling manner. Between the pair of them, Charlie wondered if the Rothsteins’ house was littered with paper, all covered in betting odds and fashion designs. 

“Yes. That will do quite nicely. Undress, and I’ll be with you in a moment.” 

Carolyn’s heels clicked against the floor as she disappeared, leaving Charlie alone. He stripped out of his clothes, indifferent as he held the mirror between his fingers and examined his new face. His entire body had been scrubbed until there wasn’t a trace of District 12 on him—no dirt under his nails, no grime in his pores, no soot in his hair. His brows were neater, though they were still thick and uneven. Carolyn had lamented the asymmetry of his face—until she decided it could be charming and she didn’t need to rearrange his bone structure, for which Charlie was very grateful. Besides, he didn’t think they wasted that kind of time or resources on someone who might be dead in two weeks. 

Gingerly, he touched his hair. Carolyn doused it with something gelatinous, until his curls were neat and flat, a smooth part running down the side. He turned from side to side, examining the effect. He supposed it was sleek, almost handsome. 

And if he looked nice, somebody might send him a box of matches to keep his pretty face from freezing to death. What a system that was. 

Carolyn returned with his prep team and far fewer garments in her hands than Charlie expected. Wholly unfazed by his nudity, she handed him a pair of black pants, boots, and gloves. He didn’t want to point out how useless gloves like those would really be down in a mine; they were thin and tight. They adhered as close to his hands as the pants did to the rest of his body. All the same, he donned them obediently and waited for more, since he was barely dressed at all.   

But there wasn’t anything else, not really. Across his left shoulder, they fastened a broad, metallic plate that bent with the curve of his body. It felt light and effortless, but he knew what it was meant to look like—hard armor carved from an enormous hunk of coal. The prep team kept it from moving with some sort of adhesive, attaching straps that were purely decorative. Twin belts of black rock were strategically placed across his chest—one ran diagonal, the other horizontal. 

“Really frames your chest,” Carolyn said with admiration. She patted the muscles of his torso and gave a winning smile. “We’ll show them how strong you are.”  

Although his arms were firm from years wielding a pickaxe, his shoulders broad with labor, he could hardly believe he would be presented to the Capitol—and all of Panem—without his shirt on. The thought made him at least a little bashful. 

“Now, for the finishing touch…” Carolyn held a small container in her hands. She dabbed her fingers into it and, without warning, began to smear the contents across Charlie’s chest. He stiffened with surprise. She worked diligently across his body, streaking her fingers until great, charred smudges covered his entire torso.  It was some sort of powder—black in color as it clung to his body. It looked like it was part of him, the coal from his veins seeping through his skin in artful patterns across his exposed flesh.  

“Beautiful,” Carolyn praised, her keen eyes intent on his chest. At that moment, footsteps echoed across the expansive tiled room. Rothstein strode towards them with a small smile, Meyer trailing behind him with far less enthusiasm. Carolyn flounced over to her husband, guiding him unnecessarily towards Charlie with one hand on his forearm. “What do you think?” 

She twirled her taloned finger in a small circle, as an instruction for Charlie to show himself off from every angle. He obeyed, grudgingly. 

The Rothsteins—both Mr. and Mrs.—were beaming at him, though it wasn’t with fondness. Charlie and Bart used to go to auctions in the town square. There wasn’t much to be sold in District 12, but when they got a rare shipment of supplies from the Capitol, there was a buzz of excitement over the prospects. Once, somebody sold a goat that _wasn’t_ the runt of a litter or riddled with illness. Charlie felt like that goat, as starving residents of District 12 clamored to be the highest bidder of the valued livestock. 

Meyer’s face was passive. At least he didn’t look hungry to be the highest bidder on Charlie’s body. He appreciated that.  

“You’ve done a wonderful job, Sweet. The Capitol will eat this up.” 

“And spit me back out, right?” Charlie snapped. He didn’t like those looks. He wasn’t worried about modesty, but there was a gleam in their eyes that made him sick. They were all sick, with their freakish skin and their wild hair. The train platform had been overwhelming and all Charlie could think was how the callouses on his hands earned them skin dyes and eye makeup. And now they’d have his blood, too. Maybe they’d talk about him over dinner, somebody sparing a thought for that boy with the firm abdomen from District 12 and wasn’t it a pity he didn’t stand a chance? 

Carolyn bristled and muttered about Charlie’s “bad attitude.” Rothstein took a moment to observe the revulsion plain on his face, and then shook his head in an almost imperceptible motion. 

“Perhaps we had best ready Miss Citron for this evening,” he advised in a soft tone. “I will leave Meyer with you to discuss matters.” 

As Rothstein led her from that room—presumably to the next, where Anna’s prep team no doubt worked on her eyebrows and filthy pores—Carolyn continued to lament that Arnold was always stuck in District 12 with the “cranky tributes,” as though Charlie and Meyer were not in earshot. The moment the door closed (and the helmeted guards stepped in front, to block any escape Charlie might attempt), he turned to Meyer and spat, “Well fuck her too, right?”  

Half of Meyer’s mouth smiled. With a groan, Charlie flopped back onto the examining table where Carolyn had done her work. He pulled at the crotch of his pants; they were too tight against parts of him he didn’t want so prominently outlined. Meyer ignored his shameless crotch-grabbing and sat beside him in Carolyn’s chair. 

With obvious irritation, Charlie grumbled, “They didn’t put you in this get-up, did they?” 

“No,” Meyer answered. 

“Coal miner?” 

“Yes.” 

The silence settled around them once more. The blinding overhead lights—too white and too unnatural—were starting to make Charlie’s head spin, as little spots of black crept along his periphery and seemed to seep across his eyes. He squeezed them shut in a tight wince, and sat up, opening them slowly as he kept his gaze trained on the ground. There were no spots. At least he wasn’t going blind days before stepping into the Arena. 

“So _she—”_ he jerked his thumb across the room, towards the door where Carolyn’s vivid skin and even-more-vivid hair was most recently seen, “—tells me Rothstein wants to do it different this year. How come?” 

Meyer took his time answering. He leaned forward in his chair, clasping his kneecap in his real hand while the other hung by his side. Charlie was seconds away from repeating his question—did he lose his hearing and his arm?—when Meyer finally opened his mouth. 

“He thinks the _odds_ —if you can truly call them that—may actually be in your favor.” Before Charlie could feel heartened by that news, Meyer added, “Or rather, they may not be completely against you. And that’s something.” 

All the same, Charlie couldn’t help but ask, “Rothstein thinks I can win?” 

“He wants you to,” Meyer answered in that same emotionless tone. “I think he’s considering betting a lot of money on you. Normally, he wagers against his tributes, so interpret that as you will.” 

Somehow, it still didn’t sound like comfort. But maybe that was just because Meyer acted as though Charlie was an unpleasant rash he hoped will go away as soon as possible, instead of a Tribute under his tutelage. 

“You’re familiar with the Tribute Parade this evening? It should begin shortly after the Rothsteins finish with Anna.” 

“I thought we had more time?” Charlie was counting on a little longer to mentally prepare for semi-nudity in front of the whole nation. Although, it seemed like a trivial concern, when he might die in front of them soon enough. He’d like a little more time to mentally prepare for _that,_ too, but he wouldn’t hold his breath. Or maybe he would. If they didn’t have a male Tribute from his District—

Images of his brothers and sisters flashed across his mind. 

Charlie exhaled and turned his attention back to Meyer, who was still describing the parade and its importance and how Charlie ought to behave. He nodded along, but he wasn’t really listening. Meyer’s advice was to act tough, to stand tall, to seem as impermeable as the imitation-rock on his shoulder. With age and a gruff exterior on his side, intimidation seemed like a sound tactic. 

When Meyer finished, the pair fell silent. Meyer glanced towards the door, no doubt expecting Rothstein any moment. 

“You know,” Charlie said with hesitance. It didn’t feel right to sit in silence, when he had only so many words left to say. “I was rootin’ for you. In your Games.” 

He didn’t expect the look that flashed on Meyer’s face, only briefly, before the mask fell back into place. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to do the same for you,” he replied with a chill worse than Rothstein’s smile. 

Well, if that’s what he got for trying to say something nice… “Yeah, right. You’ll be too busy worryin’ about Anna.” 

It was all Charlie could think of and he hoped it might sting, but Meyer only looked taken aback. “ _Anna_?” he scoffed. “You honestly think she’s got a chance?” 

“I—Well I dunno—No, I guess not. But she’s your friend, ain’t she?” There was no way a girl who looked like she was made of fine glass would last long in the arena. But Meyer would try, wouldn’t he? 

Meyer only shook his head in a faint half-gesture. “Hardly.” 

“Rothstein said your family and hers—”  

“Only because that’s what I told him.” He cast another look for the door, in case Rothstein—or Anna—entered. With what looked like great physical effort, he leaned towards Charlie and seemed to weigh each word before it left his mouth. It was that same heaviness in his bones that made everything look like labor, like he was years beyond his age. 

“We played together, growing up. Because we were children who didn’t—who didn’t know better, who didn’t understand anything.” The words chilled Charlie to his core. It wasn’t the way Meyer said them. It was hearing someone so small, someone who _was_ a child, say something so grown. “My mother… worked for her family. It was tolerance, at best. But Anna… She was always shy, but she liked me. They couldn’t begrudge her a friend, even if—” 

Meyer hadn’t raised his eyes from the floor as he spoke, somehow slow and deliberate, yet all in a rush like he hoped Charlie wouldn’t hear. There was another sharp breath of his half-laugh and he glanced up at Charlie. “You know how it is. We’re Seam. She isn’t.” 

“They’re Captiol. We ain’t,” Charlie echoed. 

The silence settled between them again. So Meyer and Anna weren’t friends. Or, they had been once, but Charlie had a feeling Meyer hadn’t been too friendly with anyone for a year. For a moment, Charlie wondered what it had been like for her—watching the Games in one of those decent houses, waiting for her childhood friend to die. He wondered, too, what Meyer had been like as a kid—a real one, before it all happened. The lights were getting too bright again and he lay back on the table. 

Soon, the doors slid open on the other side of the room and Carolyn’s clacking heels filled the space with noise, a clock ticking, a moment impending.  

“Remember what I told you,” Meyer said, in a sudden hurry. “Strong, stoic, don’t let them see any weakness or fear—”  

“Charlie, dear, hurry now. It’s time for the tributes to take their positions!” Carolyn called out in a trill of a voice. 

“—and Charlie?” Meyer hesitated. “Good luck.” 

* * *

Charlie had never seen a horse up close before; they didn’t need any strong work animals like that with only mines as their industry. They looked bigger in person than they did on the screen during the Games each year. Rothstein patted one fondly on the nose as he looked Charlie and Anna over with gleaming, calculating eyes. 

Thankfully, Carolyn had been merciful when dressing Anna—and mindful of her age. She wore a jet black dress, pretty but innocent. Her face and bare arms were smudged carefully with the same fake-dust that covered Charlie’s body, and miniatures of that rock-like plate capped her shoulders. 

They might have been an impressive duo, if she weren’t shaking from head to foot. The coal dust ran along their arms, tracing their veins. On Charlie, it made the muscles of his biceps more prominent. On Anna, it only looked like a reminder of the blood that wouldn’t pump for long.

“Heads up,” Rothstein instructed, gently tapping them under the chins until their posture was to his liking. “This is your second impression on all of Panem—and more importantly, on the Capitol. There will be sponsors watching and their support could make all the difference. It has in the past, so a good impression is as vital as anything else.” 

Charlie glanced down at his bare stomach. Yeah, he’d make an impression, whether he wanted to or not. 

Rothstein offered more parting words of advice—the same articulation about how much appearances mattered, about how to comport themselves, how the ceremony was a serious event. The start of the Capitol anthem drowned out the rest of his words. Doors slid open at the end of the hall and from a distance, Charlie could see District 1’s horses as they moved forward.  

As Rothstein stepped back from the track, it was just him and Anna, standing side-by-side in their gilded chariot. Her hands were shaking as she held on tight, knuckles completely drained of blood from her firm grasp. She was never going to make it. If a chariot ride could shake her so badly, she had no chance in the arena. Charlie was starting to feel bad about that. And she looked so pitiful.  

“Hey,” he said, remembering how he used to walk his sister Connie to school, before he started going down in the mines everyday. Charlie squatted down and patted his own shoulders. “Hold on tight, alright?”  

As their chariot finally lurched forward, Charlie hoisted Anna up onto his back. She clung to him as they passed through the doors and processed before the splendor of the Capitol.  

Charlie squinted up at the crowds that lined the wide thoroughfare. They were packed with people, more people than he’d ever seen in one place. It was a blur of vivid colors, screaming voices, and the blare of the Capitol’s anthem, a falsely joyous march that had never seemed so sinister. The beat of the timpani drums seemed to vibrate through his body, latching onto his heartbeat until it pounded in time. 

Enormous monitors displayed each tribute pair in turn, showcasing their specially-crafted splendor. The camera moved from District 10’s pair, onto 11, and then panned over their chariot. Charlie gulped.  

There he was, clad only in dust and tight black fabric that _truly_ left nothing to the imagination. Anna dangled off him piggyback-style, her arms encircling his neck and clinging on for her life. Carolyn’s dust was glimmering in the bright Capitol lights, his muscles framed by shining black, his face almost aglow with dark iridescence. Over the pounding of drums and blaring of trumpets, a cheer rose up through the crowd. 

His newly-shaped eyebrows furrowed as he stared at his face on the monitor. It was Anna who whispered in disbelief, “They’re cheering for _us_.” 

“Now there is something we haven’t seen before!” Eddie Cantor’s buoyant voice rang loud and clear over the crowd. “Would you look at District 12? They really stand by their young tributes, don’t they?” The crowd shouted their agreement. 

Charlie beamed. “Give ‘em a wave,” he murmured from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, I got you.” He tightened his grip on Anna, who carefully removed one hand from Charlie’s shoulder and made a sweeping gesture to the crowd. She latched immediately back onto Charlie—and he knew it was because she was scared of falling. But on the big monitors, it seemed to Panem that they were a unit, proud and beaming and glittering. Just what they liked to see. 

Since District 12’s first victory came from a twelve-year-old boy, hoisting up Anna seemed like a celebration. A reminder of the underdogs who shocked Panem last year. A promise that they could do it again. 

Their chariot neared the end of the track, but the crowd’s cheers had not quieted. As it pulled into the circle alongside the others, Charlie let Anna down from his back. But they stood side by side—chins up, looking strong—as the President of Panem stepped onto his balcony to deliver the opening speech. 

They were the same words that Charlie heard every year. Honor. Loyalty. Remembrance. Penance. One screen showed President Kaestner’s face, old and wiry, as he spoke of the Capitol’s benevolence in extending welcome to their honored tributes.  A second screen continued to pan over the tributes in their chariots. Charlie kept his eyes on that, trying to block out the President’s words. 

The tributes from District 1—with Benny who had cheered at the reaping—were both dressed in loose-fitting trousers. His chest was bare and she was only slightly more covered. Their torsos and arms were completely coated in gold paint, to match their elaborate gold headdresses; the little boy’s was perched precariously, since he would not stop shifting from foot to foot. It made sense that they’d be covered in gold and splendor, since District 1 supplied the luxury to the Capitol, but all Charlie could think when he saw District 1’s tribute was that he looked so much smaller, so much scrappier, than he expected a Career to look. 

President Kaestner reminded his audience of the Dark Days, when Panem was first formed, when President Winter started the commemorative Games so many years ago. A girl from District 3 looked luminous, in a dress made from criss-crossed wires and that glowed against her dark skin. The President spoke of the Districts’ loyalty to their protectors in The Capitol, who were their salvation from destruction. Both the boy and the girl from District 7 were dressed as woodsmen, in an unflattering brown fabric meant to resemble tree bark. 

Every year, the favorite looks from the Tribute parade became fashion trends in the Capitol. But a favored look was never enough to save a Tribute. The camera continued to pan, the President continued to speak, and the District’s ensembles grew less inspired as the numbers rose, until they reached Charlie and Anna. He caught another glimpse of his face—stoic and strong, magnified across the square.

“Without the protection we so graciously bestow onto each and every citizen of Panem—” President Kaestner began, as his speech dragged on.  

He didn’t think about it, really. It just happened. Charlie winked, giving Panem his brightest smile. The crowd’s cheer of approval drowned out the rest of the President’s words. President Kaestner tried to speak over them, but he had to stop, to wait for them to quiet down. It lasted only for a few seconds, before he resumed with a hard look of resolution. But for those few seconds, he had been silenced. And Charlie had certainly made an impression. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter four on[ tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/134893027059/hunger-games-the-boardwalk-chapter-4)


	5. Chapter 5

Carolyn was beside herself with glee as they returned to the Training Center. She couldn’t stop gushing over the impression that Charlie and Anna made during the Parade. Even Charlie felt a little bubble of hope to hear her talk like that. Rothstein could leverage the cheers of the crowd into at least a few sponsors, if Charlie and Anna could perform just as well in training and in their interviews. 

But that was a big if. His little bubble of hope stayed on the ground floor as they shot up through elevator. Charlie figured he could do alright in training. He was strong, could learn how to use a few weapons, and maybe show himself to be some kind of contender. Talking to the whole of Panem with Eddie Cantor, though, he wasn’t so sure about that. It wasn’t that he was nervous so much—but he knew he wasn’t good with words the way other people were. Anna would probably win their sympathy for being young, but nobody invested in a tribute based on sympathy alone. And nobody ever favored District 12. 

They arrived at the top of the Training Center. Charlie and Anna stared as they stepped into the vast suite. It was huge, with elegant furniture and intricate chandeliers and art hanging on every wall. The Rothsteins seemed unimpressed by its splendor and Meyer hardly moved at all. The elevator doors almost shut on him, before he stepped through; when he did, he kept his eyes on the carpet. 

“Your room is this way,” Carolyn said, breaking the silence as she guided Anna towards a long corridor. She looked to her husband, who looked to Meyer, who finally moved from his spot by the door. He walked after Carolyn and Anna without a word. After a nod from Rothstein, Charlie realized he was meant to follow and hurried to catch up. 

The door to Charlie’s bedroom slid open as though it sensed their presence and Charlie jumped back. Meyer’s lips twitched. “There’s a panel on the wall,” he murmured. To demonstrate, he waved a hand over a small lit square and the door slid shut again. 

“Oh.” If he was getting nervous about doors, what would he be like when he faced a tribute with an ax? “Thanks.” He opened the door himself and stepped into the room. It was even bigger than on the train, with a larger bed, a softer carpet, and a view overlooking the whole Capitol. He let out a low whistle and turned to Meyer, but he immediately shut the door and left Charlie on his own. 

Okay. That worked, too. Charlie looked over the room, still unable to believe anybody actually lived like that. He knew from the Games each year and the stories people told that the Capitol was full of splendor and riches. But even the most grandiose of childhood fantasies couldn’t imagine anything that excessive. He stepped to the window, looking down over the twinkling electric lights that wove through the city streets like the pulse through his veins. 

It was incredible, with taller buildings than he’d ever seen stretching up towards the sky. He could barely see a single star in the inky blackness, as the lights from down below continued to shine into the night. The glass was cool against his forehead as he stared, squinting, towards the street that seemed so far away. 

He shivered, suddenly, stepping back from the window. He _was_ still only half dressed, in Carolyn’s parade getup. He ripped the fake rock from his shoulder—which hurt only a little—and wriggled out of the tight pants with more difficulty than he’d admit. No wonder everyone in the Capitol was eager to sponsor him. 

Charlie showered in a hurry, scrubbing the fake-dust from his body with a blue soap that smelled like the woods they were not permitted to enter back home. He was still amazed by it—that you could just stand there, hot water falling around you, for as long as you’d like. That you could feel _clean_. But he didn’t want to waste time. He was expected for dinner and he didn’t want them planning a strategy without him. 

In pants that didn’t silhouette his whole lower half and a clean shirt, Charlie hurried to the main room. The Rothsteins and Meyer sat at a long table laden with trays and trays of food. If he thought the train menu had been extensive, it was nothing compared to what was in the Capitol. He took the empty seat next to Meyer and started serving himself—even though the other three hadn’t started. He was already three spoonfuls into soft mushrooms cooked in some kind of oil by the time he realized he was the only one eating. Carolyn seemed to bristle at his lack of table manners, but when he set his fork down, Meyer touch his arm. 

“You’ll need it,” he said, withdrawing his touch almost immediately, as though he regretted it. Meyer was still staring at his plate. He tended to look murderous or out of place in most situations, but he was more avoidant than usual since they returned. Already, Charlie was trying to think of what he’d done to cause it. 

“So what’d you think? About the parade?” he demanded more than asked. If he’d done something wrong, he wanted to know. Was winking at the whole Capitol against Meyer’s plan for stoicism? Did he oppose any display of emotion on principle? 

Meyer gave a thoughtful nod to his plate. “They’ll remember you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped. 

The aggression got everyone’s attention. Carolyn started a long monologue of praises, while Rothstein interjected his agreement without taking his eyes from Meyer, who only stared at Charlie. He immediately wished Meyer would go back to examining the cutlery. He looked like he was considering having Charlie’s head for dinner, but all he said was, “Save it for the arena.” Charlie didn’t have to ask about his meaning for that. 

Anna wandered into the tense silence that followed, looking around at everyone. “Is everything okay?” she asked, timid. 

They all chorused a lie of yes, fine, and absolutely, while Rothstein gestured for her to sit. “You begin training tomorrow. You’ll begin in the basement—” He seemed to remember that Meyer was the mentor this year and stopped short, inviting Meyer to speak instead with a wave of his hand. 

Meyer picked up where he left off—explaining that they’d have three days, learning fighting and survival skills, and then a chance to show their skills to the Gamemakers. That was where it mattered, because their scores would be broadcast to the whole of Panem—and to potential sponsors. 

“You’ll want to begin forging alliances, as well,” Rothstein chimed in. “You’re not permitted to kill each other yet. So now is the best time for a discussion.” 

That was a grim strategy. Not wrong, but grim. “Any recommendations?” Charlie asked. Rothstein and Meyer exchanged a look that wasn’t promising. 

“We’ll see how it goes after the first day,” Rothstein answered. 

* * *

All twenty-four of them assembled first thing the next morning. They gathered around an instructor who was explaining their options and their rules—though none of the tributes were paying attention. They were all too busy eyeing one another. It was their first opportunity to see the competition up close.

Once they had free reign of the training facility, many tributes were eager to show off their skills. Charlie hung back with Anna, unsure where to go first. He watched warily as the boy from District 2—Al, he remembered from the reaping footage—tested a selection of spears and hurled them with alarming accuracy. He was shorter than Charlie, but far wider and more muscular. He didn’t like the thought of coming face-to-face with that guy—and it didn’t seem like staying at a distance safe either. 

“Where are you going first?” Anna asked. He gave another look around the room—at the weapons and the skill stations alike—and realized with a sinking feeling that he knew none of it. And he had only three days to become good enough to save his own life. 

Without giving it much thought, Charlie pointed to where an instructor was giving the two tributes from District 5 a lesson in sword fighting. “I’m goin’ there first.” The blond boy looked like he knew what he was doing. And if Charlie could pick up a few skills along with an ally, even better. 

With all the confidence he didn’t feel, he strode over, picked up a sword, and held it over his shoulder like a bat. “What’d I miss?” 

The other two tributes shot him dirty looks. Off to a great start. But if he could prove himself, maybe they’d want him as an ally. The instructor corrected Charlie’s stance and explained where to strike by pointing to markings on a dummy. She seemed so clinical in her explanation, but for all Charlie knew, it was the boy next to him who’s guts he’d be spilling—or who’d be spilling his. They practiced hacking away at dummies all morning, until Charlie’s arms throbbed. But at least he knew where to hit someone to make it count. 

At their break for lunch, the District 5 tributes walked away without a word. Charlie hurried to catch up with them. 

“Your mother’s that girl, right?” he asked, which sounded stupid the moment it left his lips. She wasn’t a girl anymore, but all Charlie knew was the highlight footage of her drowning the final tribute several years back. 

The boy didn’t even bother to stop walking. “Gotta be more specific.”

Charlie stepped right into the boy’s path, blocking him from going around. He was going to talk to this guy no matter what he had to do. “Your mother. She won. Youngest victor till my District.” 

“What, you came here to brag or something?” he snapped, sizing Charlie up with disdain. 

So much for that plan. Instead of an ally, it seemed like Charlie had convinced him where to lodge his sword first. “Look, alls I’m tryin’ to do is talk here. Maybe District 5 and 12 got somethin’ goin’ on. Young victors and all that.” Trying to salvage the conversation, Charlie stuck out his hand and introduced himself. 

The blond boy replied “Jimmy,” but he didn’t take Charlie’s hand. He brushed right past and went to get lunch. As if to spite Charlie’s attempts at making an ally, Jimmy grabbed his lunch and sat down with the two tributes from District 7.

Charlie grabbed a few rolls from the cart, sat down, and stuffed them angrily into his mouth. He glared at Jimmy as he chewed, watching him get chummy with a girl with dark hair and big eyes. The boy from District 7 wore glasses and had a noticeable scar that suggested a lumber accident involving an ax and the side of his face. 

Anna joined him and interrupted his bitter staring by asking what he’d done all morning. He mumbled about swords through a mouthful of bread, scanning the rest of the room in search of a new ally. 

Al-the-spear-thrower from District 2 continued to show off his aim by demonstrating how far he could throw their rolls of bread. He’d laugh as each one pelted into the opposite wall with unnerving force. 

“Must be nice,” Charlie muttered. “Wastin’ food like that.” He could see the same thought on the faces of the other tributes from outer Districts. Maybe one of them would be interested in teaming up; it seemed like the only way they stood a chance against the Careers. 

Most tributes spent lunch dodging each other’s gaze, trying to eat and avoid thinking about impending death. It was mostly quiet until a roll of bread smacked right into the face of the hulking, square-headed tribute from District 9. Suddenly everyone was alert, waiting to see what he’d do. They were forbidden from fighting one another before the arena—although Charlie had no idea how they’d be punished for it, considering death wasn’t too far away for most of them anyway.

The tribute got to his feet slowly. The room seemed to hold its breath. Charlie had never noticed how huge that guy was. He was easily the tallest of the tributes, with a wide and sturdy build. He still had that undernourished look in his cheeks, but it was obvious the guy had some muscle. He grabbed the roll of bread and stalked across the room, never taking his eyes from District 2’s tribute. 

They all seemed to inhale together, expecting the worst. The District 9 tribute set the roll of bread down on the table with a thud. He sat down opposite. Charlie didn’t hear what he said, but the tribute from District 2 gave his wild laugh, clapped the other guy on the shoulder, and loudly introduced the tribute as Nelson to the other Careers. 

It looked like another potential alliance had formed—and not with Charlie involved. He immediately took to scanning the room, realizing his numbers were dwindling.

That morning, Meyer had spent breakfast trying to remind Charlie of all the tributes’ names and districts. But Charlie had a better mind for faces than names and numbers. He knew Al from District 2, Jimmy from District 5, and Nelson from District 9. The statuesque girl from District 3 who wore the glowing dress at the reaping was called Daughter. But it was hard to match the faces to the names and numbers, when everything happened in such a blur. 

When lunch ended, the instructor corralled them back to training, though everyone was eager to continue either showing off or desperately trying to learn enough to live.

Since he learned a weapon in the morning, Charlie thought maybe he ought to try a survival skill. He sat down at an empty station with supplies for starting a fire and a list of written instructions. It seemed like the instructors couldn’t be bothered to teach survival skills, since most of them were too busy watching the tributes with weapons. Though fire could be dangerous, too… For a moment, he wondered what the Capitol would do if all their tributes burned in training. They’d probably burn his district as recompense. 

Of course, he’d have to be able to start a fire in the first place. Charlie felt like an idiot, sitting on the ground and rubbing two sticks together while nothing happened. 

“You’re doin’ that wrong.” 

He glanced up. The Benny kid from District 1 was looming over him, as much as someone that scrawny could loom. Great. Now he felt even more dumb. 

“You do it then, if you’re so smart,” he snapped, throwing the twigs at the kid as he sat down. 

He shot Charlie a dirty look, but set to work with the supplies. “You’re just lucky we’re not s’posed to be fightin’ yet.” 

Charlie laughed. Sure, he wouldn’t take his chances with Al’s spear or Jimmy’s sword, but he felt pretty confident he had the size advantage against Benny. “Gonna poke my eye out with that twig?” 

“Why, you wanna go into the arena without one?” he spat, jamming the end of the stick under Charlie’s chin. He leaned away, watching the kid warily. Despite his size, Charlie had no doubts that the kid would actually try something like that. 

With a resigned sigh, he muttered, “Alright, just show me, then.” 

Benny grinned a gap-toothed grin and returned to his task, narrating as he worked, until there was a spark, and then a flame, and then a small fire. 

“Where’d you learn that?” Charlie asked, warily eyeing the flame. There was a bucket of water left to douse their work when they finished, but Benny seemed more intent on coaxing the fire to greater size. 

“School,” he replied simply, glancing at Charlie with a look of genuine confusion. “They don’t teach you this kinda stuff?” 

Charlie shook his head. “Mostly just about coal and shit.” 

“Yeah, they don’t let us get into the more intense training until we’re a little older. Just all the basics at first,” Benny said, like he hadn’t actually heard Charlie at all. He was too busy examining his fire from all angles and prodding it with bits of leaves and a few twigs here or there. 

Charlie tried not to think of the advantage that tributes from better districts had, where survival skills and weapons training were woven into their education along with their particular craft. He remembered Rothstein’s words when they watched the footage of the reaping, about how District 1 often had older volunteers. 

“So how come nobody volunteered?” Charlie asked. “Instead of you?” 

Benny shot him a look, full of surprising darkness. It was nothing like the arrogance or the excitement he’d demonstrated by cheering at the reaping. “They already got one tribute who learned it all. No need for two.” 

That didn't make sense to Charlie, who always thought of District 1 as victory-obsessed and bloodthirsty. Weren’t two skilled tributes better than only one? He didn’t know much about odds, but he knew that they’d favor more chances. 

“Look,” Benny spat as Charlie opened his mouth to ask another question, “Maybe you don’t know everything about my district, alright? It ain’t all one big happy family.” 

He dumped the entire bucket of water over the fire. It splashed Charlie, who watched as Benny stomped off, grabbed a set of throwing knives, and hurled them with abandon at a practice dummy. His aim was terrible. One knife grazed the dummy, but the others wound up buried up to the hilt in the wall behind. As he watched the kid huff, Charlie had a feeling that it hadn’t been about accuracy. 


	6. Chapter 6

The last day of training arrived sooner than Charlie wanted. He tried archery with no success, no matter how many times the instructor corrected his form. All he had to show for it was some painful red marks on his arms from the string. He could wield an axe okay; it was just like being down in the mines. They taught some hand-to-hand fighting, which Charlie had been better at than a lot of the kids, since he’d been doing that since he was young. Still, it wasn’t a comforting success. How many victors won by punching every other tribute? 

At Meyer’s insistence, he’d tried the survival stations, too, even though working with a weapon seemed like the best way to save his life. Before long, he could finally start a fire on his own. He learned about building shelter and setting traps for animals. But every second spent at those stations came with a twisting anxiety as he watched the tributes around him wielding swords and spears and knives. Every second they spent learning a weapon, Charlie felt another second slipping away from the length of his life. 

He had endurance though, and some muscle. His hands came with callouses and his muscles were used to strain. There were other kids who didn’t have that advantage. Some were young enough to still be in school, or the work in their districts wasn’t as physical. He stood a chance against the hungriest, but that still left plenty of skilled, strong tributes between him and survival. 

He’d just have to find a way to get them first. 

During their last training session, Charlie worked with knives. He learned the different types, how to use one up close, where to strike, and the differences between using a knife as a weapon and using it as a tool. His reflexes were fast and the panic of his dwindling time kept his attention rapt. He was aiming his first throwing knife when a voice interrupted. 

“Hey Charlie!” 

He missed the target by several feet. 

“What?” he demanded, turning to find Benny at his elbow. 

“Nice shot,” he teased, looking at the knife imbedded in the wall far from its mark. 

“Woulda been better if somebody hadn’t snuck up on me!” And that might have been a better excuse without the threat of the arena looming ahead of them all. Tributes weren’t going to give a warning then, either. 

Benny feigned a look of innocence—which was the least convincing thing Charlie had ever seen—and pursed his lips to hold back a smile. “Go on, try again. I’ll be good I promise.” 

With a huff, Charlie picked up the next knife. He closed one eye, flicking his wrist experimentally, before pulling back, taking aim, and—

“So I was thinkin’—” 

“What the fuck is your problem!” Charlie shouted as the knife clattered to the floor at the feet of the dummy target. “You want this next one?” he demanded, grabbing the third knife and aiming it under Benny’s chin. 

A ripple ran around the room, the eyes of the instructors all turning to them at the same time, a warning. Charlie set the knife down and they exhaled. 

But Benny was still smirking at him, his youthfully round face cut by jagged teeth, the points of his grin, and the feral edge in his stare. 

“ _What_?” 

Benny shrugged, rocking on the heels of his feet. With a sigh that sounded more like a growl, Charlie grabbed another knife. He held it ready, but paused, glancing at Benny. “I swear, if you fuckin’ say a word, you’ll be the first person I find in the arena,” he warned. 

Benny nodded his silent understanding. Charlie inhaled, trying to concentrate, even though it was hard with Benny watching him. He was waiting, expecting the next comment. He stood frozen with the knife ready to the throw, staring at the target. But when Benny said nothing, he threw. 

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Benny remarked as soon as the knife left Charlie’s fingers. But it didn’t startle him and the knife lodged into the shoulder of the dummy. “Hey, you finally hit something!” 

But Charlie was already staring Benny down. Sure, he hit the damn thing, with no help from his chattery little audience. “Hoping I’d say _what_?” he asked with a snarl. 

“That I’d be the first person you found in the arena,” he answered with a shrug. Before Charlie could ask if Benny was out of his mind with a death wish, he kept going. “I was thinkin’… maybe about us teaming up.” 

_That’s_ what Benny wanted? He was looking to form an alliance with Charlie—and his way of doing that was by messing him up all morning? Maybe he really was out of his mind. “Why should I?” After all, he was one of the oldest tributes and Benny the youngest apart from Anna. Charlie already expected her to cling to him for protection in the arena. He didn’t want to be remembered as the guy who died babysitting. 

“You make any other allies this week?” Benny asked in a way that made Charlie wonder how long he’d been watching. He must have seen Charlie’s attempts on the first day to strike up conversation with the other tributes, which went nowhere. Meyer warned him about wasting too much time, that not everybody played by allyship—even though it was the poorer district kids who needed them most. And Meyer had won his Games on his own, even though the odds had never favored him. By the second day of training, Charlie had given up on allies and focused on how to get himself through. There was only one victor anyway, right?

“What, I gotta track you down and look after your ass in the arena?” Charlie asked with a raised brow. 

Benny gave him that hard stare—the same as when Charlie questioned him about his district. Without giving a response, Benny turned and walked to the neighboring archery station. He picked up a bow, glanced at Charlie, and shot straight into the neck of the dummy. He dropped the bow to the floor and spat, “Nobody’s gotta look after me.”

As he walked back over, Charlie glanced at his own bad aim. His knife hit the target, sure, but it wasn’t enough to kill. 

“But we could have each other’s backs. If nobody gets you in the bloodbath, that is,” Benny added with another smirk, bringing back his irreverent levity. 

Charlie sighed, considering it. Nothing was set in stone. Maybe they’d never live long enough to even see an alliance. Maybe Benny was a lying little shit who wanted to see Charlie fuck up like with the knives. “Alright, asshole,” he said at last. “I’m not goin’ outta my way, but if we find each other, we stick together. Got it?” 

He held out his hand. Benny gave it a vigorous shake. “Got it.” 

* * *

It was after dinner. Charlie had stuffed himself with huge helpings of an aged cheese that was better than any cheese he’d ever tasted, and as much meat as he could fit on his plate with each serving. He felt a heavy contentedness, a pleasant weight in his stomach that was still a new sensation.

They were all assembled on the plush couches and chairs in the center of the penthouse. AR was leafing through his notebook, lost in his own thoughts about odds and figures, while Carolyn braided Anna’s hair. That left Charlie and Meyer on a couch to themselves, a good bit of space and Meyer’s prosthetic hand resting as a reminder between them. Meyer was his usual, silent self, so Charlie plucked at a loose thread on the couch and stared out of the window. 

Finally, the anthem and Capitol seal flashed on the screen. Eddie Cantor gave his nightly welcome to Panem, describing the rigorous training that each tribute had undergone all week. He made it sound much more dramatic than it really was. Besides the showing off, most of the tributes kept to themselves and learned in quiet desperation. It was hardly the show of skill and feat that Eddie Cantor promised. 

But training was the one bit of privacy the tributes had in the process. The spectators were not privy to what they learned, relying only on the numbered scores for information. They must have been hungry for the details, clamoring for the one invasion into the tributes’ lives that they were denied. 

To present their training scores, each tribute's face flashed up on the screen, along with their names and districts and footage from the reaping and parade. Finally, a number appeared, broadcasting their skill level to all of Panem and to every eager better out there. AR had finally looked up from his notebook.

Benny was first, his wide grin filling the screen with a score of six. It was a solid number, right in the middle. Charlie still hadn’t mentioned to Meyer or AR about his alliance. Something about it knotted in his stomach all afternoon, a weight nestled alongside his dinner, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made a mistake. AR and Meyer advised him on the train that Benny could be an ally. But he was a Career and a kid—and how could you trust anyone to have your back? 

Al from District 2 received a solid score of nine, though Pearl received only a low four. Charlie hadn’t paid much attention to her during training, though he was certain Al’s deadly aim and brute force had won him plenty of favor from the Gamemakers. The crowds always loved the strong, brutish killers. 

There was another nine immediately after, from District 4. The round-faced boy Owen must have impressed them somehow, even though Charlie didn’t remember him showing any special skills. 

“What’s District 4 like, do you know?” AR asked, as he scribbled in his notebook. 

Charlie and Anna glanced at each other. He was glad she looked as uncertain as he did. Charlie remembered how Owen and Billie looked during the Parade, in tall rubber boots and outfits made from several layers of nets. But during training, they hadn’t done anything to grab attention. 

“Hm.” AR clucked his tongue against his dagger-like teeth. “I suspect a strategy. Hiding your skills, or playing the underdog, it’s a strategy that can work wonders.” 

“If you’re from a wealthy district,” Meyer added, speaking for the first time since dinner. “Poor districts don’t have the luxury of pretending we aren’t a threat. They already think it.” 

Eddie Cantor moved on to District 5. Jimmy ranked at an impressive eight and Charlie regretted his failed attempt at forming an alliance. 

The boy from District 6 had a stoic look, though he certainly hadn’t impressed during the reaping or the parade. But as a score of ten flashed under the name Archie, he caught the attention of everyone. 

“That’s unusually high for District 6,” AR noted. “Not that they haven’t had their contenders and their winners, but to receive the highest training score…” 

“He has great aim,” Anna said in a small voice, hugging a pillow to her chest. “I saw him during training and he never missed once.” 

“Is that so?” AR asked with a tone that sounded discordantly cheerful. While Charlie’s stomach sank at the thought of another considerable threat, AR seemed to relish the information as he worked through the numbers and reconfigured the odds.

But Archie wasn’t the last surprise they’d receive. They showed the boy from District 7 in his tree costume, the lumber accident scars visible across his face. Charlie mentioned the alliance he saw forming between him and Jimmy during training—which was nerve-wracking with Jimmy’s high score. 

Still, he didn’t look like much, with his awkward manner and his glasses. He was stick thin, his face impassive and blinking on the screen. Then, “Richard Harrow: TEN” flashed beside his portrait. 

“Are you _kidding_!” He was doomed. He was completely doomed. The scores already seemed so impossibly high—not only from the Careers, but from poorer districts as well. “A fuckin’ _ten_?”

“He’s probably good with an axe,” Meyer said. “They’re all good with an axe.” 

“Actually, I don’t think so.” Anna spoke with some hesitation, looking up at Meyer with more timidity than usual. “I saw him try to use one. He knew how but he was still kind of clumsy.” 

“An act, then,” Meyer dismissed and they said no more about District 7. The dark-haired girl Angela received a mid-level score and Charlie was relieved. 

District 8 failed to impress. District 9 brought another pair of possible threats, with the stocky Nelson boy receiving a score of seven and a slight, but ferocious girl named Sigrid beating him with an eight. 

When they finally reached District 12, Charlie held his breath. They played his parade footage, complete with a close-up of his grinning face and the wink. For a moment, he thought things looked good. He looked strong, with his shirt off, and he had grabbed the Capitol’s attention. 

But the screen flashed the name “Salvatore” and gave him a five.

“That’s not bad!” Carolyn consoled in a rush. “People forget lower scores. They only remember the high ones!” 

Somehow that didn’t sound like encouragement. He’d gained attention—and then lost it by disappointing in training. 

But they didn’t dwell long on Charlie’s score. The mood in the room dropped again as Anna received a two—the lowest of any tribute. 

It was all a rush of noise and sound. Eddie Cantor’s cheerful voice discussed the most impressive tributes with sickening glee. Carolyn was beyond effusive in assuring Anna that it was okay, that training scores didn’t matter, that there was still time to make a good impression and that there were other ways to compete besides force. It all sounded like hollow lies to Charlie, but even AR had the decency to chime in with examples of low-scoring tributes who had done well. 

None of his examples, Charlie noticed, were ever victors. 

Anna could only take so much before she burst into tears and hurried from the room. Carolyn fretted and ran after her, ordering an attending Avox to bring some sweets. 

“Well,” AR said, switching off the screen and leaving them all in silence. “I have a lot to consider, but this certainly isn’t a large setback. It should be an interesting year, at least.” 

He stood stiffly, pocketing his notebook and adjusting the front of his ornate jacket. “I’ll leave Meyer to explain the interviews to you, but Charlie, I can help you prepare for that in the morning.” 

Charlie gave him a stiff nod of thanks, and soon they were left on their own, wrapped up in silence. 

“So we’re both at the bottom, huh,” Charlie said, glum, as he brought his knees up to his chest. 

“Actually you’re dead center,” Meyer corrected. Charlie pretended not to wince at ‘dead’ and Meyer pretended he hadn’t said it, continuing to explain, “There were plenty of scores lower than yours. Technically speaking, you’re the highest score in the bottom half.” 

Charlie wouldn’t call it comforting information. He still wasn’t going to impress anybody or win any sponsors with only a five. “How’d you figure that?” he asked. They taught him sums in school, but Charlie couldn’t remember all the numbers he’d just seen—let alone arrange them in his head. 

Meyer gave a stiff shrug. “I… have a head for that sort of thing. As my mother likes to say.” 

Charlie’s smile was tight, but warm. He let his head drop against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. It was high above him, swept in darkness that the chandeliers and decorative lamps could not reach. It was strange to talk about home—about mothers, about school, about the dirt and the familiarity and the comfortable slowness of starvation. In the Capitol, everything happened fast and quick and it hung heavier on Charlie’s limbs than any residue from any mine. 

“My mother only says I have a knack for trouble,” Charlie said but the words felt heavy even in their fondness. 

Meyer chuckled. “You seem alright to me.”

It was probably the nicest thing he’d ever heard Meyer say—but Charlie had to disagree. He was right under the thumb of the Capitol, locked away in splendor until they could cart him off to televise his death for their own entertainment. Yeah, Charlie figured, that seemed like a knack for trouble. Whether he found it or it found him, they were always linked together somehow. 

“Still,” he said, abrupt and eager to escape the tug at the thought of home, “This sure is somethin’ else. The penthouse. The food.” He picked up a decorative glass statue from the table beside the couch and turned it over in his hand. “The—whatever this is.” 

He looked at Meyer with a grin, turning the statue over in his hands, but he had closed up again. Charlie dropped the statue back onto the table with a thud. “They sure got it good,” he muttered under his breath. 

And how generous of the Capitol, to give the tributes a taste. To bestow them with decadent meals and lush accommodations and all the finest clothes at the tips of their fingers, for just that glimmer of time. How generous of them, to show each and every tribute just what their work bought the Capitol—what the callouses on their hands and the ache in their backs and the emptiness in their stomachs earned for them all. 

In a rush of anger, Charlie smacked the glass statue from the table. It landed on the thick carpet with a dull thud. Their stupid carpets were so damn thick he couldn’t even break glass on it. Charlie just stared at it with contempt, as it lay there mocking him, protected and cushioned and unbreakable. 

“You know,” Meyer said, soft, in his hesitant way. He grappled with the words, weighing them, searching. “Last time I was here, I… Well, I was—a tribute.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” It should have been obvious to Charlie, but somehow it surprised him. Even though Meyer carried his Games in every movement, Charlie felt apart from him, like Meyer was on the other side of a wall called survival that Charlie didn’t think he could reach. But only a year ago, Meyer had been trapped in the penthouse, staring out at the city and wondering if he’d ever see home again. And somehow, despite the odds, he had. 

“What do I gotta do?” Charlie said, firm but with resolve. They’d been skirting around talk of the Games since they arrived in the Capitol. AR discussed them with his detachment, but Meyer only spoke of the immediate—first the parade, then training, or the other tributes, offering only glimpses of what was inside the arena. 

“You need water. Before the first night, find water.” 

“But what about tribu—” 

“Charlie,” Meyer looked at him. His gaze was firm, but not murderous, and for a moment, Charlie wondered if he was getting somewhere. “Get out of the bloodbath. Get a weapon, get shelter, but most important—get water. Without it, you’re weak and you’re vulnerable and you need to—” He broke off and stared at the carpet. The walls went back up. “You need to get water,” he finished, soft but tinted with desperation for Charlie to understand. 

“Alright,” he agreed, unsteady. “And then what?” With Meyer’s plan, at least he wouldn’t die thirsty, but to Charlie’s ears, it still didn’t sound like a strategy for survival. 

Meyer didn’t say anything. He frowned at the couch cushion, brows furrowed in concentration, as though he were much farther away than right beside Charlie. “I… don’t know,” he said at long last, quietly. 

“You _don’t know_?” 

Meyer sighed but he was too slow in answering. Charlie didn’t have the patience for that. He didn’t have the time left in his life for that. “I’m goin’ in there, to a bunch of kids better with weapons than me, and you don’t fuckin’ _know_? My life’s on the fuckin’ line and you’re gonna tell me—” 

“—It could be anything!” Meyer shouted. “It could be _anything_. Any arena, any set up, _anything_. And you don’t know until you’re there. You can’t know anything until it happens. There’s no strategy. There’s no point, because you _don’t know_. Your allies might die in the bloodbath. You might die in the bloodbath. They could do anything in there— _you don’t know_. And I don’t know. And the only person in the whole world who can do anything to keep you alive, is you, Charlie.” 

The room reverberated with the silence that followed. The distant sounds of life in the Capitol drifted up like from another world, seeping through the thick-plated windows. Despite the low hum of it all, it only seemed to fill the room with the feeling that there was nothing else besides Charlie and Meyer, sitting in silence, both stunned by Meyer’s outburst. For the first time, nothing else was real but that. 

“I should go.” Charlie stood abruptly, but he didn’t move from the spot, wavering on the carpet without looking around at Meyer. He was the only person Charlie knew who’d gone into the arena—the same weight of impending death pressing down on his shoulders and strangling his lungs—and who had come out on the other side. There was nothing comforting about Meyer himself, Charlie reasoned, but the fact that he existed was enough. 

But Meyer didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell Charlie to stay. He didn’t tell him to sit back down. He didn’t offer real advice, and yet Charlie couldn’t bring himself to walk away. He walked to the window instead and stared out at the Capitol, willing the darkness to swallow him. 

The worst thing about Meyer was that he was right. AR could talk all day about sponsors and odds and past games, but it didn’t mean anything. Carolyn could make him handsome for the Capitol and maybe it was better to stand out and make an impression, but it was never enough. None of it was ever enough. No training or allies or strategy was going to be enough on its own. There was only one person in the arena who wanted to keep him alive. Only problem was, Charlie didn’t have enough faith that he could manage it. 

“Do you think I’m gonna die?” he asked in a whisper, hoping that Meyer had left already.

The prolonged silence was enough to make Charlie think that he had. 

“What good will it do if I answer that?” Meyer finally said. 

Charlie stayed rooted to the spot, eyes locked on a distant twinkling window of somebody living safe, living comfortably, in the Capitol, with no idea what it meant to be afraid, to be hungry, to be empty. He saw Meyer’s reflection appear beside him in the glass. Charlie shrugged. “Just don’t wanna get my hopes up, I guess.” 

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Meyer told him. “Think about staying alive. It’s the only thing you can do.” 

Charlie closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the glass, hoping it would give way under his weight. He was scrawny, sure, but with the stone in his veins, he felt heavy enough to crash right through. 

With uncertainty, Meyer asked, “Do you want me to leave you?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.”

They both stood there, in stillness and in silence. Charlie opened an eye to peek at Meyer. He was expressionless, practically unmoving, one hand behind his back while the other hung at his side. But he was still there, patient at Charlie’s side, even though he didn’t have to be. 

Meyer had been honest with him and he was right. In the end, it was only Charlie in the arena. But wallowing in that weight wasn’t going to save his life either. And whatever last memories Meyer might have of him, before he was buried beneath years of subsequent tributes, he didn’t want desolate hopelessness to be among them. No matter what happened, he’d at least be more than that. Even if they didn’t expect much of him, he’d at least put up a fight. 

Charlie swallowed and stood upright, stepping away from the window. “The kid from District 1 wants to be my ally,” he said, suddenly eager to change the subject.

“Benny?” Meyer asked and Charlie nodded. He gave a low chuckle. “I’m surprised. I thought you were against the idea.”

“Well, he helped me out in training,” Charlie said with a shrug. He wasn’t sure he liked the kid, but Charlie would at least defend his choices. He didn’t have many left to make at that point. 

“Really?” There was skepticism in his voice. “Why?” 

Charlie shrugged. “I dunno? ‘Cause I couldn’t make a fire? I thought AR said he had a truce with District 1 anyway.” 

“Funny he calls it that…” 

“What’s that mean?” Charlie asked, a drop in his stomach like he’d missed the bottom step. 

Meyer cast his glance out of the window, sweeping over the expanse of the Capitol. He shifted at last, changing his weight to his other foot and letting his real hand drop to his side. Charlie noticed his knuckles clench. “District 1 is full of winners. District 12 is not. But AR makes his money by betting on tributes. You can interpret the rest however you like.” 

“So, what, this kid pretends to be my ally, kills me, and AR walks off the big winner?” That was fucked up. Sure it was all fucked up, but that? That was fucked up. 

“I’m not… saying that’s the case. Or that it’s their arrangement—I don’t really know the details myself. If you and Benny help each other do well, then AR and Masseria could both profit just as easily.” 

Meyer paused for long enough that Charlie thought he was done. But he continued again, with an abrupt start as he glanced at Charlie. “I’d be wary, at the very least. Always be wary of an ally, but especially…” Meyer sighed and glanced at the floor. “I did step in the way of District 1’s victory last year. I worry their mentor may be out for blood.” 

Charlie remembered the recap footage vividly. He couldn’t shake an image like that, of Meyer mauling District 1’s tribute to become the youngest victor. He couldn’t forget that—and neither, it was obvious, could Meyer. 

But it still didn’t sound right, that it was all some kind of fucked up revenge strategy. He didn’t like Benny too much, but he wasn’t convinced by Meyer’s interpretation either. 

“I think he’s alright,” Charlie finally said, with some hesitation. Meyer glanced up at him. There was nothing harsh, but he seemed surprised in Charlie’s disagreement. “Look, when I was talkin’ to him in training, he said some stuff about his district. I don’t think he likes his mentor much.”

He paused to see if Meyer might provide more insight, but he only shrugged and said, “I haven’t had the opportunity to meet him yet.” 

“Maybe it’s like the Seam, you know?” Charlie offered. “Maybe they got somethin’ like that, where you’re not as good if you’re from there.” 

Meyer considered it, bobbing his head with thought. “It’s possible. I don’t know much about District 1 beyond their performance in the games.” 

“I think it’s you, actually. Why he’s my ally, I mean,” Charlie amended and Meyer really did look surprised. “He’s the same age as you and Anna. I dunno, maybe—maybe that’s got somethin’ to do with it.” 

“Is that your alliance? You, Benny, and Anna?” There was something in Meyer’s voice that Charlie couldn’t place. It was surprise, with a tinge of coldness, but there was something more than that. He didn’t know how to place it. 

Charlie cast an unnecessary glance around the empty room and dropped his voice to a murmur. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do about Anna. Do I… look out for her or what?” 

“Don’t risk yourself,” Meyer said so quickly and so firmly that Charlie was taken aback. “Don’t harm her, of course, but don’t jeopardize yourself either. No matter what, only one person leaves the arena.” 

“I know.” 

The weight was filling up his stomach again, threatening to drag him down. Charlie glanced at his reflection in the mirror, ran a hand through his hair, and forced a smile. He wanted to keep Meyer talking, but not about that. 

“So, what about interviews?” he asked. Charlie knew what to expect from his years of spectating, with Eddie Cantor speaking to each tribute individually. But he’d never talked like that in front of people before and Meyer had a strategy for everything. Besides, Charlie didn’t know how much longer he could keep thinking about the arena. At least Eddie Cantor wouldn’t have a knife up his sleeve. “You want me to play it cool again? Be all tough and stoic, like at the parade?” 

There was a hint of a smile on Meyer’s face and Charlie could have sworn he heard a chuckle. “That’s what I _told_ you to do, not what you did.”

Charlie shrugged, leaning back against the window and facing Meyer. “Guess I just got caught up in the crowd.” 

“So you decided to wink at the whole country?” But the accusation was only playful and for a moment, Charlie thought this might have been the old Meyer—the one who really was a kid, the one who’d been friends with Anna. 

And he couldn’t help but laugh—at the absurdity of it all, or because there was a flash of unexpected lightness on Meyer’s face for only a moment. “Yeah, I guess I did, huh?” 

After a moment’s consideration, Meyer said, “Keep that up at the interviews.” 

“What, the winking?” A camera was one thing, but Charlie didn’t know how far winking at Eddie Cantor would get him. 

“No, the whole—” Meyer’s gaze fell to the floor and he shrugged, shifting. “—the being charming thing. Keep doing that.” 

“What, me?” That took him by surprise. “I’m—Mey, I’m not charming.” 

There was another long pause. Meyer kept his eyes on the floor while Charlie watched him, head tilted and trying to understand. “It’s getting late,” Meyer said at last. “You’ll need your rest. We can… discuss the interviews in the morning.

He turned and left without another word, leaving Charlie to stare after him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter six on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/141061437704/hunger-games-the-boardwalk-chapter-6)


	7. Chapter 7

Charlie was only half-listening to AR that morning. He nodded along, absorbing most of his words, but he was more interested in popping crunchy green peas into his mouth and watching the screen just over AR’s shoulder. The peas were soaked in some kind of oil and had been set out as a late morning snack, and Charlie couldn’t stop eating them. 

“By the time Eddie Cantor reaches you, we will have heard from every tribute already,” AR was advising while Charlie nodded distantly, crunching. He brushed his greasy fingers against the leg of his pants and AR winced. 

The screen behind him was airing broadcasts of interviews with Capitol citizens who worked on the Games. AR said they conducted the same interviews every year. It was a typical broadcast for people with enough leisure time to sit around and watch. But this hadn’t been mandatory viewing out in the districts. Charlie always missed it while he sat in school or worked down in the mine. 

“—You’ll want to be mindful, of course, that this means—” 

Charlie popped another pea into his mouth and leaned on his hand, to get a better view of the screen past AR’s head. The man on the screen had a thick Capitol accent. Charlie could hear his voice coming faintly through the speaker, but he couldn’t make out the words. But there was something even stranger about the way he spoke. He’d drop his voice low, speaking with deliberate slowness as the camera zoomed closer. He was almost whispering, completely still in a way that made Charlie think of Meyer. But then he’d be shouting, gesturing grandly and wildly. He knew how to hook an audience, Charlie figured. 

“—Does that make sense to you?” 

“Huh?” Charlie glanced at AR with surprise. “Yeah, sure. I just gotta… do like I been doin’. Like you said.” 

AR sighed and Charlie knew immediately he got it wrong. “That isn’t what I said,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with frustration. “If you want me to help you on this, you might try paying attention.” 

“Right, sorry.” Charlie shoved a whole handful of peas into his mouth to avoid having to say anything else. 

AR pressed on, but soon Charlie caught himself glancing back at the screen and the man once more. “Who is that guy?” he asked as he licked greenery from his front teeth. 

With what seemed like considerable effort, AR swallowed a look of disgust and turned to glance at the screen. “Maranzano? He’s the Head Gamemaker. He’s designed the last few arenas.” 

“So he did Meyer’s?” Charlie asked and AR nodded. When he kept his eyes on the screen, AR finally gave in and suggested they take a break to watch the remainder of the interview. AR revolved his finger against a dial on the table and the volume increased until Charlie could finally hear the words. 

“Last year, you treated the Capitol to a colder climate,” Eddie Cantor said. Panning footage of Meyer’s arena played behind them. With great awe and fondness, Eddie cooed over it, complimenting the design and the beautiful scenery. All Charlie could think about was Meyer’s blood in the snow. 

Eddie Cantor leaned in close, enticing Maranzano to be his confidante. “Any hints as to what we might see this year?” 

Charlie sat up in his seat, but Maranzano only shook his head, slow and deliberate. “Of course, I cannot say.” But there was a small quirk of a smile, as he carefully folded his hands and gave a look of great consideration. “But I will tell you, it will be like nothing you have seen before.” 

“Well I can’t wait to find out what that means!” Eddie exclaimed. Charlie couldn’t help but disagree. “How do you find your inspiration, when creating something that means so much to so many?” 

Charlie regretted pausing to watch. The excitement and the reverence was enough to make him sick, and already he was fighting back to urge to punch Eddie Cantor right in his stupid Capitol makeup that night. 

“For something such as this, I draw from the past,” Maranzano said with a flourish of a ringed hand. He was dressed entirely in black, his face wreathed in violently red feathers attached to his collar. “It is important that we remember, that we honor the meaning behind these Games—that they are a symbol of our great history.” 

Eddie Cantor nodded in solemn agreement, as Maranzano continued. “I look to the world that was, to symbolize the chaos and destruction that existed before Panem. Through this, we can all remember from where we come, to better understand the Capitol’s benevolence. Many empires have fallen before there was unity under the Capitol. May we remember their failure, so that we may never repeat their mistakes.” 

There was applause from the invisible audience, while Eddie Cantor thanked Maranzano for his time and his insights. He moved on to introducing the next guest, but Charlie reached across the table and spun the volume until he couldn’t hear anything anymore. 

“Sounds like a lot of fuckin’ shit to me,” he spat, feeling the anger through his veins. 

But AR didn’t seem to feel the same. He fixed Charlie with a look that made him go quiet. “I should think you’d be eager for any information that might help you in the arena.” 

“But what good’s that gonna do me? All this ‘world that was’ shit?” It was bad enough to hear the usual bullshit about the Capitol’s benevolence and to hear everyone spouting that garbage about remembering how much better it was all supposed to be, how the Capitol had given them so much. But there was no way he could figure anything about the arena from that speech. All he knew was that he hated the Capitol more than he ever had, more and more with every word they spoke. 

AR shook his head, like Charlie was just being stupid or moody. “Perhaps we should return to preparing for your interviews. If you want to make a good impression, you’ll need to keep your anger under control.” 

“Sorry, didn’t realize you was still mentoring. Thought all you hadda do was parade me around and then shove me off to die,” Charlie snapped. 

AR closed his notebook. He stood from the table. He stared down at Charlie for a moment and sighed. “I’ll go see if Meyer is available to help you. I’m sure he will be of great assistance.” 

He walked off without another word, leaving Charlie alone with an almost empty bowl of peas. He didn’t exhale until AR was out of sight; his hands remained clenched. 

The minutes seemed to pass slowly and he wondered if AR was lying, if he didn’t say anything to Meyer and was just going to leave him unprepared. Or worse, maybe Meyer didn’t want to help him either. Maybe AR told him some story. Besides, given how little Meyer talked, Charlie had his doubts about how good he’d be at interview preparation anyway. 

But before long, Meyer came hesitantly into the room and sat down opposite Charlie. They glanced at one another, Charlie dodging eye contact. “AR says he’s going to coach Anna?” By his tone, it seemed that AR had said far more than that. 

Charlie shrugged and stared down at the table, still burning with anger. 

“I don’t like them anymore than you do, Charlie.” 

His head shot up. “You readin’ my mind or somethin’ now?”

Meyer quirked a smile. “One of my many talents.” 

Charlie chuckled and shoved the bowl of peas across the table. “Try these, they’re good.” There was a look of surprise on his face, but Meyer obliged, carefully picking at them with his fingers as Charlie had done. 

“So, the interviews?" He pulled on a smile, like nothing had happened. Charlie already fucked it up with AR, but he didn’t want to fuck it up with Meyer too. 

“They’re not so bad,” he said, which surprised Charlie. Although maybe by comparison of what was coming, nothing was that bad. “Eddie Cantor makes it easy.” 

Charlie scoffed. His makeup was always more outlandish and his costumes more gaudy than any of the Capitol fashion Charlie glimpsed from TV. Something about those big, protruding eyes and his gleeful commentary on the Games each year always unnerved Charlie. “Don’t know how you can take him serious up close.”

One of Meyer’s shoulders shrugged. “It’s no different than—anyone else.” Charlie knew exactly whose name he avoided saying. “Just play along. Give them what they want.”

“Charm them?” Charlie asked with a smirk, echoing Meyer’s words from last night. 

Meyer hesitated. “They’ve loved it so far.” 

* * *

At least Carolyn gave him a shirt. It was an improvement over last time. She kept much of his look the same, though. The pants were just as tight and just as black as before. She added tall boots that laced to his knees and made it uncomfortable to walk. The shirt didn’t have any sleeves; it was made from a loose, flowing black fabric that rippled like water across his torso. She added only a touch of black dust, drawing several streaks along his temples so that it framed his eyes. Her last touch was a pair of thick, grey bracelets for each wrist. They were heavy and cut into odd geometric patterns. She said it made him look strong; he just felt weighed down.

AR had either forgiven Charlie’s outburst from earlier or decided there were more pressing matters at hand. He acted as though nothing had happened, directing Anna and Charlie with his usual businesslike demeanor. 

All of the tributes were assembled beneath the stage, their escorts taking them up by elevator in turns. Screens lined the walls, so they could watch the progress above them. Right now, the stage was flushed with bright lights—pinks and blues, bright whites that gleamed, and every surface seemed to shine. Eddie Cantor greeted the crowds, bouncing this way and that as he spoke, heightening the audience’s excitement to meet the tributes. It was, he said, their first and last chance to get to know them. 

“These are killin’ me already,” Charlie complained to Meyer in an undertone while Carolyn fussed over Anna’s hair. He tried to loosen the straps but Carolyn’s talons had fastened them too tight. They were cutting into his legs until they tingled. 

But the Capitol—for all their splendor—hadn’t given any chairs for the waiting tributes. Even though many of the tributes, both boys and girls, were wearing heels that arched their feet at funny angles, Charlie scanned the room and didn’t see anything they could sit down on. Probably didn’t want the tributes wrinkling their nice clothes in the meantime. 

Charlie put a hand on Meyer’s shoulder—and felt him tense in surprise—as he struggled to slip two fingers between the boot and his leg. If he could just loosen it a little, it wouldn’t be so bad. “Shame I gotta wait all night to take these off.” If they did the districts backwards, he could take it all off as soon as he was done. He’d walk back to the Training Center barefoot. He didn’t care; it wouldn’t be the first time in his life. 

“C’mon,” Meyer said with what Charlie thought sounded like sympathy. He ducked away from Anna, AR, and Carolyn, heading towards the far wall. District 12 was already waiting farthest from the elevator, but it was good to put a few yards between them and everyone else. Between Anna’s nerves, Carolyn’s fussing, and AR’s cool demeanor, Charlie wanted to get away from it all and breathe. 

Meyer put his back to the wall and slid to the ground. Charlie sat beside him with relief. “This don’t look bad or nothin’?” he asked. “They’re not all thinkin', _Look at that guy, sittin’ down, let’s kill him first_?” He meant it as a joke, but it didn’t sound as funny out loud. 

“No one’s paying any attention.” It was true; all of the tributes were busy being fussed over as their stylists made last minute adjustments or their escorts corrected their posture or their mentors gave them more instruction. It was weird, seeing everybody up close, all those scrawny kids adorned in the Capitol fashions. Their stylists worked wonders with their makeup, cleaning them all until they glowed and adorning them with jewels and paints. And maybe it was just because Charlie knew how they felt, but he thought he could still see all the kids underneath who didn’t fit right with the image. 

On the nearest screen, Eddie was finishing the interview with the girl from District 1. 

Charlie watched Benny take the stage and sit in her place. His outfit was similar to the parade—only, like Charlie, he got to wear a shirt this time too. There were heavy plates of gold on his arms and across his neck. He wasn’t painted like last time, but they had dusted him with gold flecks until it shimmered when he moved in the light—and he moved a lot. 

“So Benny, you’re obviously one of our youngest tributes,” Eddie said after an introduction. “Any thoughts on how that might affect your strategy in the arena?” Charlie thought it was generous of Eddie to phrase it like that. He always tried to paint each tribute in the best light, playing up their strengths or personality. 

But Benny just shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Who needs a strategy? All you gotta do is get everybody else before they get you. Sounds simple to me.” 

“You seem very confident about your chances,” Eddie said while Benny nodded and a smirked in agreement. “Even against tributes that are older and bigger than you?” 

Benny laughed. “It won’t matter how big they are when they’re dead.” 

Eddie pulled a face of shock and the audience roared with approval. The interview kept up like that, with Eddie asking questions about the arena, Benny’s skills, his feelings about the Games—and Benny was just as brash and haughty in every answer. By the end of his interview, he didn’t seem so young anymore. 

The interviews seemed to move faster once they got underway—and each tribute brought their own strategy and personality. Pearl looked dazzling in a long blue dress that was draped with what looked like real silver flowers. She told Eddie all about her life back in District 2, joking with him and charming the audience with a sweet, sincere smile. It was jarring when Al mounted the stage, filling the chair with his broad shoulders and talking loudly about his excitement for the arena. He had a harsh, echoing laugh. 

Daughter shimmered onto the stage in an electrified gold-plated dress that seemed to radiate its own warm light. When she sat beside Eddie, she sat perfectly upright, holding herself like she came from royalty. Her answers to each question were brief, cool, and in a voice so honey-smooth that the audience held its breath and waited for more, but she kept her words few. 

“Not everyone can play the mysterious angle,” Meyer noted—the first thing he’d said since the interviews started. There was something like approval in his voice. At the very least, he seemed impressed. “You should watch out for her. They’re very smart in District 3.” 

Charlie only nodded, remembering that Meyer had killed both of District 3’s tributes after forming a brief alliance. Was he being stupid, by expecting to keep his own alliance with someone who made no secret of his willingness to see everyone else dead? 

The pair from District 4 both seemed very likable. Owen had a bright smile and a sense of humor, almost impertinent in the way he and Eddie laughed and joked together. Though when the smile faded from his face, there was an intensity that burned in his eyes and it made Charlie nervous. He didn’t know if the audience would see—too busy laughing over his jokes and fawning over his smile—but Charlie could tell immediately that it was an act, no matter how convincing. Billie took the same likable approach, bubbling with an effervescent radiance as she charmed the audience with her humor, animated expressions, and bright grin. 

“Now this is certainly a heartbreaking case that we don’t see very often,” Eddie said with a solemnity that he certainly didn’t feel. Charlie knew the entire audience was eating it up—heartbreak and all. “What is it like, to be mentored for the Games by your own mother?”

Jimmy’s face was entirely blank. “Yeah, it’s hard,” he said, clipped and measured. “It’s hard on her.” 

“Would you say she’s finding this more difficult than you are?” 

“Yeah.” The stony expression seemed to be the last defense against an anger that was threatening to seep out. “I’m all she has, so she doesn’t want to lose me.” 

“And what about your father, back home in District 5?” Eddie asked. Jimmy gave a quick, harsh laugh that made Eddie’s magenta brows furrow. 

“My father’s in the Capitol,” Jimmy spat back. 

The audience gasped in surprise, their shock and glee at this new twist filling the crowd. They carried on until Eddie Cantor had to wave his hands and hush them, to bring order as he turned his attention back to Jimmy. 

“Are you saying, that here in the Capitol, your father is watching this very interview?” Eddie asked in a low, excited whisper that kept the audience on the edge of their seats. 

“Yeah, but I don’t think he knows it.” Another roar from the crowd. Even the tributes waiting below had fallen into silence, watching the story unfold. “I guess it’s the first time anybody from the Capitol’s ever watched their kid go off to the arena.” 

Not even Eddie Cantor knew how to handle Jimmy’s news. It was the stuff of Capitol gossip, sure to keep their vapid heads buzzing. For once, Eddie had lost control of the interview and the crowd. 

“D’you think that’s true?” Charlie asked in a murmur, one among many backstage. “He’s not… just sayin’ that as an angle, right?”

Meyer was quiet for a moment. “From what AR tells me, I suspect it’s true.” 

“Is that even _allowed_? Somebody from the Capitol and somebody from the Districts?” Sure, the mentors spent a lot of time in the Capitol. But what Jimmy said just didn’t add up. He didn’t think the Capitol would let that happen. Charlie fidgeted with the straps on his shoes as he waited through the long pause for Meyer’s answer, glancing at him hesitantly. 

“It isn’t uncommon. Especially with… desirable victors.” Meyer seemed to be choosing his words with more caution and precision than usual. 

Even as he let the words soak in, he realized he wasn’t surprised. The thought of it twisted in his stomach. The Capitol wanted everything from their tributes; they wouldn’t let go just because they were victors. 

“D’you think—” He didn’t get the chance to ask. AR called over to Meyer, beckoning him with one fluid gesture. Beside him, Anna looked about as nervous as she had at the reaping—maybe worse. 

Meyer heaved himself up from the ground with his good arm. He gave Charlie a last fleeting look before rejoining their group, leaving Charlie to sit by himself with the full view of the room. He watched as Jimmy and Eddie finished their interview. It was hard to wrap his mind around, that a kid going off to the arena had a parent in the Capitol. Would they let that happen? 

As they started on District 6, Charlie realized they were halfway through, that much closer to his own interview. Many of the tributes who had finished were already peeling off their costumes in favor of comfort. He watched as Billie shimmied out of tall rubber boots and pulled an ornate jeweled starfish from her curls. Daughter’s dress had stopped glowing, though she looked no less regal, even compared to her prep team. When he looked over at the gaggle of District 1 tributes and team, Benny caught his eye and smirked. Charlie gave a small wave and before he knew it, Benny broke away from his group and headed over at a trot. 

“What, no boulder?” he asked, looking over Charlie’s more subdued outfit. 

“I don’t wanna show off all this too much. Might make the other tributes jealous,” he responded with sarcasm, gesturing to his abdomen. Benny snorted. 

They were the only two tributes from different districts who had spoken all night. As Charlie got to his feet, he noticed a few eyes glancing their way and watching their conversation. Breaking ranks like that was enough to attract attention—but Benny wasn’t exactly quiet, either. He ripped off the gold plates from his shoulders and let them drop to the ground with a clatter. Charlie winced. 

“That was some interview,” he said. Even as they joked with each other, Benny proudly declaring his enthusiasm for killing everyone else rang in Charlie’s ears; it was a warning he couldn’t overlook. 

Benny sighed. “My mentor’s not too happy about it. Gave me a real earful,” he complained. 

“Why?” As far as Charlie was concerned, it had been memorable. And wasn’t that what counted? 

Benny only shrugged, carrying a haughtiness that seemed larger than his small frame. “He says it makes me _unlikeable_ —like he has any room to talk, fat miserable bastard…” 

Charlie glanced over at the group from District 1. “He’s the big guy?” The mentor was short, wide, and had his hand on the female tribute’s back as they spoke. But he was obviously keeping an eye on Benny all the while. He noticed Charlie looking; they made eye contact and Charlie glanced away immediately. 

He thought back on his conversation with Meyer—the _arrangement_ with AR—and wondered again if it was a set up, if he had made a mistake. “What’s he think about you and me teamin’ up?” By the look on the mentor’s face, he didn’t seem to like Charlie and Benny talking too much. 

“I didn’t tell him,” Benny answered with a casual shrug. 

“But he’s your mentor—” 

“—Doesn’t mean he gives a shit. Or that I do either.” Benny finished with a huff, defying Charlie to challenge him further. 

But, speaking of mentors, Charlie didn’t get the chance to press the conversation further. Meyer returned and said in a low voice, “AR would like to speak with you. It will be your turn soon.” 

“Hey,” Benny said, quieter than he’d ever said anything. “You’re Meyer?” 

Meyer glanced at him. He nodded. “Yes.” 

It was hardly an impressive conversation. But Benny seemed to be without words for the first time, with something in his face that Charlie thought might have been awe. Meyer just looked uncomfortable, which was nothing out of the ordinary. 

“You, uh—you—” Benny glanced back at his mentor. “You deserved it. Last year. You really showed everybody, you know?” 

Meyer pressed his lips together and for a moment, Charlie thought he wasn’t going to say anything. But he said “thank you,” in a low voice, polite as he could. 

“He mention I’m gonna be keepin’ his sorry ass alive in the arena?” Benny asked, gesturing to Charlie like he wasn’t there. 

“Well he didn’t frame it quite like that, no,” Meyer conceded. There was a faint smirk at his lips as he glanced between them. “But he did mention something along those lines.” 

“I don’t need nobody lookin’ after me…” Charlie grumbled. He looked at Meyer to back him up on it, but Benny laughed and cut in with, “You sure? Cause I’ve seen your aim and I think you do.” 

“You kept messin’ me up!” 

“Not like it’s hard!” 

“I thought this was an alliance?” Meyer interrupted. He didn’t raise his voice, but they both fell silent at the sound of it. Still, there was something that passed for amusement on his face. He sobered quickly, however. “Charlie, we shouldn’t keep AR waiting,” he said, lower this time. 

“Oh. Right…” He glanced to Benny. “Sorry, I gotta—see what he wants.” 

“It was nice meeting you,” Meyer said politely. 

Benny grinned. “Yeah! Sure, anytime."

He turned to head back to his mentor and Meyer and Charlie turned to AR—who did not look pleased with the pair of them. Meyer didn’t hesitate in walking over, though Charlie lingered a step behind, wary of his dissatisfaction. He still didn’t know where they stood after that morning—and he realized he hadn’t mentioned his alliance to AR, either. But he wasn’t his mentor. He didn’t need to know. 

Still, Charlie glanced between AR and the tips of his shoes. 

“They’re finishing up with District 10 now,” AR said, with more coldness than a statement of fact deserved. “I’d like the opportunity to go over a few things with you, if you’d oblige me.”

Charlie reflexively glanced at the screen. How did they get to District 10 already? There was a boy on screen that Charlie hadn’t paid much attention to before. He had a wide grin as he joked with Eddie Cantor. He giggled and Charlie scowled at the sound of it. At least he could be more likable than that kid, with his high-pitched, annoying laughter. 

“Let Eddie direct the conversation. He knows what he’s doing, he’ll try and make you sound good,” AR said brusquely. As he spoke, Carolyn brushed her fingers over his shirt and through his hair, making last minute adjustments. “Whatever strategy you and Meyer have decided upon for this interview, I recommend that you stick to it. No surprises. Think before you say anything. Every word matters and you only have a few minutes to make an impression.” 

Somehow, it wasn’t comforting advice. He didn’t know either if he’d be able to do what Meyer said, to be charming in front of all those people, when he just wanted to tell them all exactly what he thought and run back to District 12. Or anywhere that wasn’t the Capitol. There wasn’t much for him back in 12 either, but it was better than the Capitol. Better real hunger than the insatiable devouring of the Capitol. 

“We ought to move along. It will be our turn soon!” Carolyn interjected in her bright voice, ushering them all towards the elevator. Benny gave him a smirk and a wave as he passed; Charlie thought it might have meant good luck. Nobody else paid much attention as they passed. The elevator doors slid shut on District 11, whisking them up to the stage. 

As they fell into line behind them, Charlie felt AR’s hand on his arm. “And one more thing,” he said in an undertone. “It’s best if we don’t have a repeat of the reaping. No matter which name Eddie uses, go with it.” 

“And stand upright!” Carolyn added as soon as Charlie slouched at AR’s words. Her hand pressed into his back and pushed his spine straight. 

“Remember, Charlie, this is about appeasing the Capitol. Let them call you what they will—they don’t like to be wrong.” 

He nodded weakly, looking at Meyer instead of meeting AR’s gaze. He hoped Meyer might chime in, offer different advice, tell him to spit in Eddie’s face and tell him the truth about anything.

But it was the same advice he kept receiving, over and over. Give the Capitol what they want. Appease them. Make them happy, play along, do as they say, do as your told. It was the only choice anybody really had. 

“Don’t try too hard,” Meyer said quietly, as the doors to an empty elevator opened before them. “You don’t need to.” 

Charlie didn’t have the chance to ask what he meant. Carolyn linked her arms through Charlie and Anna’s and stepped inside the elevator with them. “Well, isn’t this exciting?” she asked, as the doors closed and they rose upwards. 

Exciting was not the word Charlie would have used. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter seven on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/143713444194/hunger-games-the-boardwalk-chapter-7)


	8. Chapter 8

Carolyn’s nails were bright berry and digging into Charlie’s arm. She kept a tight grip on both tributes as she led them down a narrow corridor, until the harsh lights from the stage seeped through the darkness towards them. The male tribute from District 11 had just finished his interview. He brushed past them in a teal suit that gleamed like leather, a smug smile stretched across his face. 

“Your turn!” Carolyn tucked a strand of loose hair behind Anna’s ear, ran her hands over the shoulders of her dress, and gave her a gentle prod forward. Charlie watched through the gap as she walked forward, slowly, until Eddie Cantor met her center stage and they sat together. 

Eddie’s voice boomed in person. It amplified to fill the whole room as he greeted Anna, complimenting her on the dress. She wore light grey instead of black, simple and sweet, with delicate beads—tiny glittering lumps of coal, Carolyn said—embroidered across the dress. Neither of them wanted to point out to Carolyn that coal didn’t glitter or look anything like that. 

“What do you think of the Capitol?” Eddie asked, with a smile and a soft tone. Charlie knew better than to mistake it for real sympathy, but it paired nicely with Anna. 

“It’s very big,” she said, timid, and the audience cooed. “I’ve never seen anything like it!” 

Beside him, Carolyn clicked her tongue approvingly. “She’s doing so well.” Again, Charlie wondered if it might be real fondness—in as much as someone from the Capitol could be feel fondness for a tribute. Or maybe she was just doing a good job following AR’s instructions. No doubt he wanted her to play up her young age and innocence. There weren’t many options for her besides sympathy. 

They kept the conversation centered around the Capitol. Eddie asked about the food, about the dresses, about all the silly things that were important to those people. For a second, Charlie wondered if even Eddie didn’t have the stomach to ask such a young girl about the arena. The Capitol residents always pitied young tributes; they pretend their deaths were too much to think about. But nothing ever changed and every year, there were kids of just 12 and 13 who died. 

Almost as though he could read Charlie’s thoughts, Eddie finally reached the inevitable. “How are you feeling, on the eve of the Games?” 

On the large screen, Charlie saw Anna bite her lip. She hesitated, for a moment, and the audience seemed to hold its breath with her. “Scared,” she finally said, soft. There were fawning sighs all throughout the room. 

“Well,” Eddie said, reaching over to clasp her hand, “We can’t fault you for that. But District 12 has been surprising us with its talented young tributes lately.” 

Charlie barely held back a surprised, rough laugh; Carolyn shot him a dirty look. They’ve got one Victor, and already the Capitol acted like they all stood a fair chance. Whatever helped them sleep at night. 

It wouldn’t be good to face Eddie with that rage burning away. He needed to shove it down, to be charming, to do what Meyer said. Charlie spun one of the thick bracelets around and around on his wrist, pressing down on it until the edge dug into his palm. The pressure gave only a little relief. 

“Has it helped, to have a mentor your own age?” Eddie asked. Charlie could tell he was trying to make Anna sound like a real contender. Comparing her to Meyer was a smart tactic—however incorrect it was. 

Anna gave a small nod. “He’s my friend, actually,” she said in that same gentle voice. Charlie wasn’t sure which was worse—the way the audience sighed adoringly over her statement, or the genuine sweetness in her voice that contrasted sharply against Meyer’s distance from her. 

“Your friend?” Eddie repeated, holding his free hand over his heart. His other hand stayed holding Anna’s in an imitation of reassurance. 

“Since as long as I can remember.” The sincerity and innocence in her voice continued to work wonders on the audience. Beside him, even Carolyn gave a little sniff. Charlie glanced at her, wondering if she had been paying even an ounce of attention. All he’d seen between them was Meyer’s pained expression of obligation every time he so much as looked at her. But she managed to win over the Capitol and break their hearts in just a few minutes. 

And then Eddie really cinched it for her. He dabbed at his eyes theatrically, inviting the audience to tear up with him. “Ladies and gentlemen, this really is a first! A mentor and a tribute—childhood sweethearts!” 

“ _What_ —” Charlie spat and immediately, Carolyn smacked his arm to silence him. But that wasn’t true, was it? Charlie saw the way they interacted and he could barely believe that a friendship had once existed—but maybe, he realized, that was part of the space between them. 

It didn’t matter, but the words still rattled around Charlie’s brain and he couldn’t help but shake the discomfort that Meyer had kept it from him. Meyer kept most things from most people and it wasn’t long ago when Charlie didn’t know him at all—except from what he’d watched during the Games. But they were closer now, weren’t they? A last friend Charlie could have before the arena? 

Anna’s time was up, but the audience continued cheering louder and louder as she left the stage. Carolyn pushed him into the lights of the stage and Charlie stumbled forward, dazed and blinded and feeling every bit as stupid as he probably looked. The lights felt brighter than they seemed from the screen and he blinked, struggling to see anything with the glaring whiteness and the vibrancy of Eddie’s hair and suit. 

Eddie Cantor guided him to his seat and Charlie gratefully let him take the reins. All attention was on him. His legs quivered and he wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the tightness of his boots. He could feel Eddie’s pronouncement with Anna still hanging in the excitement of the room—or maybe it was only in him, buzzing around in his skull, mingling with the nerves and the fear and the dread already living there. 

“So _Charlie_ —” Eddie placed a delicate stress on his name, giving an encouraging wink to the audience. He turned, staring out at the vast crowd, mostly shrouded in darkness except for the occasional gleam from jewel-encrusted hair or the metals of their expensive clothes. They watched him with excitement, with attention. He gave a tentative smile of greeting and they cheered for him. For the first time, Charlie realized that Meyer and AR weren’t lying. The Capitol found him charming. 

“Charlie Luciano, from District 12, you’ve—” 

“It’s Luca—” Charlie started, but AR’s words rang in his ears a moment later. _Don’t correct him_. He couldn’t have a repeat of the reaping with his last name too, even if it was just Eddie mispronunciation. Eddie looked at him funny; Charlie grinned and placed his hand on Eddie’s arm, encouraging him. “It’s nothin’, sorry. You were sayin’?” 

Eddie laughed as Charlie smiled and the audience was on his side again. “You’re eager, aren’t you!” 

Charlie forced a laugh and said, “Sure I am.” As if on cue, the audience showed their approval with another shower of applause.

“You’ve made quite a splash here in the Capitol,” Eddie informed him, though Charlie can’t help but wonder how. “Tell us—why ‘Charlie’?” 

He could feel AR’s disapproval even from under the stage. He must have been staring at the screen, brows drawn in concern, not wanting Charlie to further defy the Capitol by _choosing_ something other than their records. 

And maybe that’s why he answered Eddie with a shrug and, “Just like the way it sounds.” Like he was one of them. Like he could make choices. Like he could decide on something just because he wanted it that way. It was enough for Eddie and it was enough for the audience, and even though his heart kept pounding in his chest, he found the persona fitting over him as snug as Carolyn’s boots. He could do it; he could be charming. 

“We like how it sounds too, Charlie!” 

“So long as you don’t forget it,” he said with a grin that looked more natural than it felt. 

The audience agreed with a cheer, though he couldn’t help but wonder how much of that was just Carolyn’s handiwork. On the large screen, his face looked handsome. The thinness became artful with Carolyn’s subtle makeup and the dark coal streaks. She made the undernourishment look attractive, his unruly hair artfully tousled, and all of him seemed sleek and strong in black. 

“We’ve seen a lot of great tributes up on this stage tonight, haven’t we?” Eddie turned towards the audience and they cheered their reaction. “Many of whom were very confident for the arena, with great skills. What’s your strategy for the Games?” 

“C’mon, you gotta let me keep some of my secrets.” He said it without really thinking, because he didn’t have a strategy beyond a surprisingly vicious 13-year-old boy and fighting like hell to stay alive. But the audience continued to eat it up and Eddie encouraged it all. The people of the Capitol loved the air of mystery, that he was holding back things they couldn’t have. It only made them want more. 

“You can keep that one,” Eddie allowed, “but give us another in exchange? Tell us what you think—will District 12 have its second victor?” 

There was something in his voice Charlie didn’t like. He knew it was just how Eddie spoke, that excited jubilance in every word. But he made it sound like some big scandal, an amusing bit of gossip to think that District 12 could actually win more than once. 

“Why shouldn’t we?” There was an edge to his voice, the anger seeping through the charming facade. “Maybe things are changin’. Maybe the way it used to be, it won’t be like that for much longer.” 

There were no assenting cheers that time. Instead, a hush fell over the crowd. Were they awed? Had he misspoken? But he didn’t care. Maybe he’d live, maybe he’d die, but he was going to fight for it either way—just like Meyer had. He wasn’t going to be counted out before they even started, just because of where he came from. 

“Tell us a bit about back home,” Eddie said. His voice had lost its buoyancy, but he was trying to regain the air of celebration, restore the levity that Charlie had apparently brought crashing down. “What’s District 12 like?” 

“It stinks.”

There were a few tentative chuckles from the audience. “It stinks?” Eddie repeated with surprise. No doubt he was expecting something heartfelt, but Charlie didn’t have many fond words for his home district. It was just the first thing that came to mind, but it was the most true. When he thought back on District 12, the scent of it stood out most clearly. 

“Yeah. From the mines.” It wasn’t what the audience wanted to hear, but he didn’t know what else to say and he couldn’t stop himself. He was talking; Eddie asked; he would answer. “Everything looks grey too, ‘cause of all the dust. I work down in the mines—so’s my dad, so’s my brothers—so we all come home covered in it.”

“There’s a bit now,” Eddie joked, trying to keep Charlie likable, to keep him from alienating all of the Capitol by painting a picture that wasn’t beautiful. He pointed to Carolyn’s makeup design, to the shimmering black streaks on his face. 

The camera zoomed in on his face, showing it off for everyone. Charlie forced a smile. He could tell Eddie was trying to turn it around, to spin his unpleasant details of Panem’s poorest district into something positive, something the audience would like. “Well I didn’t wanna get ridda all of it. I gotta represent my district.” That’s what they wanted to hear, wasn’t it? 

“Of course, of course! That’s what it’s all about!” The exuberance was back, once Charlie started to play along again. The audience could hoot and holler and pretend again that it was only a spectacle, a celebration, that no one mourned. “You’ve certainly gotten strong in those mines!” Eddie said with a chuckle, giving Charlie’s bare bicep a small squeeze. 

Charlie jumped, surprised at Eddie touching him like that, but he tried to keep the smile on his face. “Go on,” he said, flexing his arm. It was like he was only half-aware of what he was doing, like someone else was in control. 

Eddie Cantor gave his famously trilling laugh and gripped Charlie’s arm with a firm, testing squeeze. “Like a rock, like a rock!” he pronounced for the jealous audience. 

Charlie settled back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, looking far more at ease than he felt. But that was everything they wanted from him, right? “I guess I got one other advantage, too,” he said slowly, hesitating. He knew AR would disapprove; he could see that small smile of Meyer’s. “Bein’ from District 12 and all.” 

Eddie leaned in closer, and the audience seemed to lean with him. “And what’s that?” he asked, barely above a whisper, building the drama. 

“I’m better at fightin’ to stay alive.” 

In the hush that fell, Charlie felt certain he could have heard an expensive jewel fall from the dress of the person in the last row. 

Eddie nodded solemnly at him, giving the moment its proper resonance, before a giant grin broke out over his face and he led the audience into a final round of applause. It was all part of the show.

“We’ll definitely be keeping our eye on you tomorrow! Won’t we?” The crowd gave a cheer of agreement. “Let’s give it up for Charlie Luciano, from District 12!” 

* * *

The dinner that night was even larger than all the other nights—if that were even possible. There was an almost celebratory air as the five of them gorged themselves and talked over the triumphs of Charlie and Anna’s interviews. For a moment, it was enough that Charlie could almost believe he had overcome, that he had triumphed and it was all over. Thoughts of the next morning were pressed back behind helpings of fish glazed in sauce, vegetables paired with fine cheese, and an amber-colored drink that warmed Charlie to his core and made his head swim just a little, just enough that he could forget about tomorrow.

“I’d say you both exceeded expectation,” AR said with more fondness than usual, sipping from a small cup of tea. “You definitely made an impression.”

“Oh yes!” Carolyn agreed with a wave of a ringed hand. “Usually, everyone has stopped listening by the time Eddie reaches District 12, but you certainly held their attention!”

Charlie figured she meant that as a compliment.

“All they want is an interesting show. You’ve bother demonstrated that you can provide that. If they think of you at all, that’s half the battle.” The quiet, serious tone was back in AR’s voice as he looked between the pair of them. He gave a short nod—to himself, it seemed—as though he were making up his mind that yes, they did stand a chance. “I must say, Eddie Cantor might have done the best thing possible for you…” AR added, with a glance to Anna.

Before she could respond, Carolyn gasped dramatically, flourishing her hand as she laid it across the platinum fur adorning her chest. “Oh, that was beautiful! You should hear what people are saying, they _love_ it!”

Anna blushed and glanced to Meyer for a cue, who dodged her gaze in order to stare fixedly at the discarded scales that peppered his plate.

“I-I had no idea he was going to say that,” she said and though she looked at the Rothsteins as she spoke, Charlie could tell her words were for Meyer. “Do people really—? I mean, was that good?”

“It adds intrigue, certainly,” AR explained. “Sometimes, it’s that personal element that makes the Games fascinating. Otherwise, it’s just dull brutality, but—”

Charlie stopped listening. Maybe it was the drink filling up his head, but everything seemed to blur with anger, like a haze that blocked out everything else. So it was dull for the people in the Capitol? If all they did was kill each other, that wasn’t enough to satisfy?

He stabbed his fork hard enough to overturn his plate. Everyone looked around in surprise, Carolyn fussing as pomegranate seeds littered the table. She scolded him, but Charlie still felt like his head was somewhere else. Only Meyer seemed to sense this, to see the fog that filled his head.

“I thought you did very well,” he said, quietly but with resolve. He looked Charlie straight in the eye, which he so rarely did. Charlie held onto it, clinging to his gaze.

It hadn’t cleared yet, the anger, but at least Charlie had something to focus on, to guide him back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think you shocked people.”

Charlie’s brow creased. But as they spoke, as the conversation brought back a sense of normality, it seemed like everyone stopped staring. It felt like he could breathe just a little easier. Charlie brushed the spilled food off the table and into his cupped hand. He deposited it back on his plate.

“What d’you mean, _shocked_?” That wasn’t his strategy at all. When he thought back on the interviews, it was all a blur, but Charlie was trying to charm them, not shock them.

Meyer gave a low chuckle and helped Charlie by picking up a stray pomegranate. “ _The way it used to be, it won’t be like that for much longer_ ,” Meyer recited, with a shake of his head. “Practically a threat. And everything you said about 12—no one talks like that in their interviews.”

Charlie’s brows furrowed. “A threat? Not like—not to the Capitol, I wasn’t tryin’a—” He looked around at AR for his reaction. “I even let him get my name wrong, on purpose.”

AR gave a tight-lipped smile. “Like Meyer said, you were rather shocking. Many tributes are abrasive, but their anger… always sounds like it’s for the arena. Yours, on the other hand…”

“What?” Charlie demanded. Immediately, he felt he’d proven AR’s point with the sharpness of his question. “Oh. That’s not bad, is it?”

He looked to Meyer this time, who shook his head. “As far as tomorrow goes, I don’t think so.”

Tomorrow… How easy it was to forget, when his belly was full and the drink made the room buzz with a comforting warmth, when they were all talking together of Charlie and Anna’s triumphs. Charlie slumped lower in his seat.

Dessert was served next and Charlie ate, though for the first time in his life, he didn’t really feel hungry. They brought out bowls of some kind of cold cream, sweetened with nuts. It turned to slush in the bottom of Charlie’s bowl as he turned it around with a spoon. As the night wore on, their conversations became fewer and finally, Carolyn seemed to mistake the overwhelming sensation of dread for fatigue.

“Well, I’m sure you two must be so tired!” she said with a clap of her hands that made Charlie’s head snap up.

He mumbled some kind of agreement and downed the rest of the liquid in his glass. He wasn’t sure how many he’d had, but it helped.

“I’ll fetch you something to help you sleep, how does that sound?” Carolyn asked Anna with gentleness. She shot a significant look to her husband, who stood and beckoned Charlie to follow.

“A few words?” he said in a soft voice and Charlie trailed at his heels to the far corner of the living room. Carolyn left in search of whatever she’d promised Anna, leaving her alone at the table with Meyer.

Charlie realized it all at once. “He’s not gonna be there tomorrow, is he?”

“Carolyn and I will see you both into the arena. Meyer will be with the other mentors.”

The thought disappointed Charlie more than he expected. He cast another glance back at Anna and Meyer, and then to AR, who was waiting patiently. “Do you have any concerns? About tomorrow?”

Charlie gave a short, rough laugh. “You mean besides dyin’?”

“Yes.” 

He only shrugged. “I… dunno. I’m not stickin’ around once it starts. I’ll get far away, get water, and—” That was as far as anyone had discussed with him. “I’ll see what happens, I guess.”

AR nodded in a tentative approval of his strategy. No doubt someone with notebooks upon notebooks of calculations didn’t really appreciate how little of a plan Charlie had. But then, AR had never been in the arena. Like Meyer said, what could you plan for, when you had no idea what was coming?

He wondered if AR really thought he had a shot at winning. For a moment, Charlie considered asking, but he didn’t want to hear the answer. He had a feeling AR’s bets had Charlie doing well, but not living to the end. Charlie had a feeling that’s what his own bets would be.

They spoke again briefly about what information they did know. AR reminded Charlie of the tributes who were expected to perform well, who he should watch out for. The biggest threat seemed to be Al from District 2, but there were others from middle districts—like Archie, Jimmy, and Sigrid—who were also favored by the Capitol as contenders.

It wasn’t long before Carolyn returned. Her shoes were embellished with plates of metal feathers, which clanked and jangled with every step. AR patted Charlie on the arm and lead him back over with a hand on the small of his back. “Just keep a clear head,” he muttered into his ear.

“Let’s get you off to bed!” Carolyn said with a brightness that sounded more false than usual. Her smile fell almost immediately as she held out her hand to Anna. The pair walked off together; Anna gave one backward glance before they disappeared down the hall.

AR did not linger long. He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and gathered his belongings. “I have a few final matters to attend to before tomorrow. Charlie, I’ll see you early in the morning. Meyer—” The pair looked at one another and AR gave a firm nod. “You’ll know what to do.”

And just like that, they were left on their own. Another goodbye orchestrated by the Rothsteins. Already, it didn’t seem fair to Charlie that they were the ones to see him off. None of it was ever fair.

Neither of them said anything for a while. They didn’t even look at each other. Charlie glanced at Meyer occasionally, when he thought he felt Meyer’s eyes on him, but every time he turned, he was staring at the floor.

“Thanks,” Charlie finally said stiffly. “For… bein’ a good mentor.”

“I haven’t been, but I appreciate the sentiment regardless,” Meyer mumbled in the direction of the carpet. 

Charlie shrugged and drummed his fingers on the tall back of his dinner chair. “So, were you and Anna really—” 

“Is that important?” There was a note of incredulity to his voice. Charlie shrugged again; it seemed to be the only thing he was able to express. “They want to be entertained, Charlie. That’s it.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, bitterly. “All I want is to not die, but I guess that don’t count for much in the grand scheme of things.” 

“That counts for everything, Charlie,” Meyer said more firmly than Charlie expected. He chanced a glance at him and they made eye contact for the first time since AR left. 

Charlie licked his lips, suddenly more nervous than he had been during his interview to all of Panem. He felt even more exposed, with Meyer’s eyes on him, like Meyer was seeing something Charlie wasn’t sure existed.

He wasn’t charming. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t anything but a wiry kid from a starving district, with callouses on his hands and a lifetime of bruises and a constant emptiness in his gut.

He didn’t think Meyer saw any of that. Or maybe he did and thought Charlie could win anyway. Maybe he was just the best liar Charlie’d ever known.

“You should sleep,” Meyer said suddenly and Charlie was relieved that he was spared a response, spared a goodbye. Although there was some part of him that already felt guilty for thinking like that. He had to make it up to Meyer. He had to give him something—even if it was just a promise he couldn’t keep.

“Guess I’ll see you when it’s all over, huh?” he said, trying to sound casual about it.

Meyer nodded and swallowed. “Yeah.”

* * *

Charlie tossed onto his stomach, burying his face into the overstuffed pillow. The thick blankets felt heavy across his back, the warmth encircling him until he thought he’d burn or suffocate or just be crushed under the weight of it all.

He thrashed onto his back, kicking the blankets down into a mound at the end of the bed. The air immediately felt cool on his skin and he shivered.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes, blinking up at the dark ceiling. Slowly everything adjusted, until he could see the faint outlines of shapes. A pile of clothes from early left on the floor. The door into his bathroom. The outline of the window, with dim lights seeping through the tinted nighttime screen.

It wasn’t any good, lying there and waiting for sleep. He wished he’d thought to ask Carolyn for whatever she gave Anna. He’d like at least one last night of sleep with no one trying to kill him.

Charlie rolled onto his side, shivered, and grabbed for the blankets he’d so unceremoniously kicked off. He pulled them over his head, until he was encased beneath them, and lay still shivering.

He missed his brother. He missed Bart’s back at his back, as they fought one another for control of the one thin blanket that covered their bed. He tried not to think of home, which seemed so far away from the confines of the Capitol, but he couldn’t avoid it. Not with the arena finally so close, not with the weight of it all finally settling on his shoulders… Not when he couldn’t sleep and the bed was too big and too soft and too empty, when the room was too unfamiliar and there were no creaky floorboards and no vase of dead dried up flowers that his mother kept to brighten up the room. No clank of the pots as she cooked. No noise at all, as the thick windows blocked out the sound of the Capitol revelers below.

Charlie sat up. The room swam with the sudden change and he grabbed fistfuls of sheets until it all leveled out.

Maybe he could write them something. The idea seized him with something like relief, frantic and wild and desperate. He could write them a letter, just so they’d have something to remember him. It’d be something for his mother to clutch, something for his sister to sneak when she couldn’t sleep, something for when his brother went off to the mines without him.

In a manic frenzy, Charlie riffled through the drawers of the end table, searching for something he could write with or write on. They were empty. He turned to the dresser and found nothing but clothes—flowing fabrics and embellished materials. All useless.

He left the room—he was almost surprised to find that the Capitol hadn’t locked him in—and went to the main room, opening and overturning everything in search of paper. He’d write something for his family, and he’d give it to Meyer, and Meyer could deliver it when he got home, and—

Someone shouted.

His head whipped around, the panic setting in quickly as his heart raced. Instinctively, Charlie grabbed a decorative vase from an end table and hurried towards the sound. He slid through the door the second it opened wide enough and—

Meyer was sitting up in bed, staring fixedly across the room with a blank expression. He flinched back with alarm as Charlie forced his way into the room. There was a pause, as Meyer settled and stared, and Charlie turned quickly on the spot, searching for non-existent predators, his vase raised at the ready.

“Why have you got that?” Meyer said in a hoarse whisper, with a glance to his weapon.

“You—you shouted…” Charlie answered lamely. Had he imagined it? He blinked through the darkness at Meyer, who seemed paler than usual in the dim light, and even smaller. “I thought—Nothin’. You alright?”

Meyer’s face twitched into a half smile, but he said nothing. He fell back into staring across the room. Charlie shifted the vase back and forth from hand to hand, considering.

He didn’t want to leave. He could have; Meyer wouldn’t have stopped him. But it was no good going back to his room, to the loneliness and the tossing and turning. Charlie didn’t think he could move even if he wanted to. Some part of him felt rooted to the spot, to Meyer.

Meyer’s hand rested on top of the blanket, clenching and unclenching his tight fist. The sleeve was empty on the other side; Charlie had never seen him without the prosthetic before.

He looked younger than usual—or rather, he finally looked his age.

“Bad dream?” Charlie finally asked, voice low and hoarse.

Meyer’s head turned sharply, like he’d forgotten Charlie was even there. He gave a nod so short that Charlie might have missed it in the shadows that hung around them.

He thought back on his family again. His youngest sister was terrified of storms, ever since the story of a branch that came down on someone in the Seam. It was different, they tried to tell her, their roof was made of wood, not canvas. It wouldn’t happen to her. But she was scared all the same. She’d sit up in bed, Charlie behind her, his arms wrapped around her middle and chin on her shoulder, enveloping her in the tight and reassuring hug that he’d always wanted at her age but couldn’t ask for.

Charlie had nightmares too, as a kid. They didn’t make a lot of sense, but he was young and he thought the ground would collapse from under them and the earth would swallow them up. He thought the mines would buckle and all of 12 would fall down and down. He always woke with a start, wanting nothing more than to climb into bed beside his mother and be held. Of course, that would also mean that he woke his father, which Charlie wanted to avoid far more than he wanted his mother’s comfort. Instead, he woke his older brother with a belligerent prod to his shoulder and they would sit together; his brother would rub Charlie’s back and try to make him laugh, until he was calm enough to go back to sleep.

Without thinking about it, Charlie set the vase on the floor. He kept his eyes on the carpet as he crossed the room and climbed into bed behind Meyer. Wordlessly—because what the hell could he say?—he wrapped himself around Meyer and held on in silence.

Meyer tensed. Charlie waited for the inevitable _fuck off, what the hell are you doing, get out of here._ But Meyer said nothing. He just sat, unmoving, body coiled like a spring. It couldn’t have been more than a minute, but to Charlie it feel like hours, sitting there in uncertainty, his pulse still rattling in his ears. It had been a dumb idea.

But no sooner did Charlie pull back, shifting to leave and pretend it never happened, Meyer sank back against him. It was gradual, as he leaned into Charlie with his eyes still fixed forward. Charlie tried to image the familiar dusty beams of home, instead of the sleek and glistening walls of the Capitol.

There was comfort in the warmth between them, in the rhythm of Meyer breathing against his chest. Still, Charlie was almost scared to move, scared to breathe, scared to draw any attention in case it all collapsed. Meyer still felt tense, like he could bolt at any second, but his weight was comfortable against Charlie.

“You know, I’ve never had a bed to myself,” Charlie said finally, when the silence seeped under his skin and made him twitch with a need to break it. He didn’t know if Meyer cared, but Charlie needed to talk. He had to talk about them. “Got a big family… My sister—she likes to—she says I make a good pillow.”

Charlie gave a stiff chuckle, throat tight, and continued without prompting. “My brother, he snores somethin’ awful. It’s like I’m still down in the mine, all that equipment runnin’, with him snorin’ away in my ear.” But he would have preferred his brother’s snoring to the dead silence of the Capitol’s sound-proofed walls; he would have preferred the constant tightness of an empty stomach to all the food the Capitol could give him.

Somehow, it was both painful and a relief to talk about them, about the people he’d never see again. Meyer’s breathing had slowed; he wondered if he’d fallen back to sleep. “What about you?” he asked in a whisper, so as not to wake him if he really _had_ gone to sleep. “Got a big family?”

“No,” Meyer answered immediately, voice even lower than Charlie’s. His swiftness surprised him. “It’s little.”

There was a moment’s pause, before Meyer said with an urgency he’d never heard, “Charlie? Charlie, you can’t win—nobody wins, not ever.” The words fell out in a hurried, desperate rush, as though Meyer had only this moment to speak so freely. “But you can live and—and I want to say that’s something, but maybe it isn’t. But it’s good for your family. If you live, it might not keep them safe, but it will keep them fed, keep them warm.”

Charlie’s blood pounded a thousand times in his ears in the short pause that Meyer took for a deep, steadying breath. He could feel Meyer’s back extend into his chest, and then slowly deflate as he sighed. But Charlie couldn’t feel much else; for a moment, the world seemed gone. He held tighter to Meyer, without thinking about it, because he needed to hold onto something.

“Live, Charlie. Just live,” Meyer said. He sounded so definitive. Again, he made Charlie think—just for a moment—that maybe it was possible.

Throat too tight to speak, Charlie nodded against Meyer’s shoulder, only once. The room seemed to grow heavier with each passing second.

They didn’t say anything else. Meyer’s breathing continued to slow and Charlie’s followed with it. That was all he thought about. No Games, no arena, no tributes—just the slow, steady sigh of Meyer’s breath, the proof that he was alive, that he had survived.

“We oughta sleep,” Charlie finally mumbled, already dozing. Too tired to move, he shifted the half-sleeping Meyer onto the pillow and lay down beside him. There was space between them—the invisible barrier of not wanting to reveal further vulnerability—but the presence of someone else, the sound of slow breaths and the shared warmth beneath the blanket, was enough. Charlie fell asleep quickly, into something heavy and dreamless.

Before he knew it, pale morning light seeped through the tinted windows. Charlie awoke  as he did most mornings back home—with somebody’s head lying on his chest and his arms wrapped protectively around a small frame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter eight on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/144832226319/hunger-games-the-boardwalk-chapter-8)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit shorter than the chapters have been lately, but I had some last few loose ends to tie up before Shit Gets Real
> 
> chapter nine on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/150051434669/hunger-games-the-boardwalk-chapter-9)

Charlie blinked a few times in the dim morning light. Even in sleep, Meyer was tense. His hand curled into a fist, just barely gripping the fabric of Charlie’s shirt like he needed to cling on. He was still scowling, too—brow drawn and jaw clenched. Charlie tried to match his breaths for Meyer’s again, as he had last night, but it didn’t work. Despite the blur of fatigue still lingering at the edge of his mind, thoughts of what was coming curled around his lungs until his breaths grew shallow. 

He tried not to stir or shift, to avoid waking Meyer. He wasn’t good at staying still, but unfortunately, Charlie didn’t have to try for long. He could have stayed there all morning—and all afternoon, and all week, if it meant the Games would never come. But as a pale light crept through the window, he heard movement in the hallway.

He listened to the measured steps at first, too tired and slightly panicked to process much meaning in them. A door opened down the hall. A door closed. Hurried footsteps. 

Meyer’s door opened—and with it, Meyer’s eyes, as the sound woke him with a snap. He sat bolt upright, his one hand fumbling desperately across the sheets in search of something that wasn’t there. 

But he wasn’t the only one in a panic. “Meyer, we have a situat—” AR’s gaze passed from Meyer to Charlie. The concern fell from his face with a sigh. “Oh,” he said, as his face reassembled itself into a look of composure. In measured tones, he said, “I was concerned that you had gone missing and we had a problem on our hands.”

Beside him, Meyer shifted, sliding to the edge of the bed. He seemed embarrassed under AR’s watch, as he continued to glance back and forth between the two of them. Charlie flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. With a half-yawn, half-groan, he rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye. “Nope, still here,” he mumbled. “No problems at all.” Except, of course, the impending death. But already, Charlie sensed that AR didn’t consider that a problem in quite the same way. 

“You’ll want to have some breakfast before we leave. And we’ll be leaving within the hour.” 

Charlie grumbled a sleepy agreement, but he made no movement to get up. He could sense that AR was waiting, still standing in the doorway expectantly. But he couldn’t move yet. Getting up meant leaving. Leaving meant the Games. He couldn’t bring his body to obey just yet. 

“I’ll see to it, AR,” Meyer said when Charlie still hadn’t shifted. He swallowed and gripped the sheet under his hand. He felt like a kid—a stupid, whiny, petulant kid. He didn’t want them thinking of him that way. If they thought he had any chance at all, he’d prove them wrong by acting like that. And even if he didn’t win, showing them that he’d stood a chance was the only thing left for him. 

“No, I’m comin’, it’s fine,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up too quickly. The room momentarily faded to black and Charlie swayed a little as his vision cleared, but his resolve solidified as the room came back into view. He didn’t look at Meyer, keeping his gaze firmly on AR. He couldn’t linger to say goodbye. They’d done that already; Charlie couldn’t manage it again. “Let’s get goin’.” 

Without a response, AR turned to Meyer instead. “You know where you’re going?” Charlie snuck a glance, long enough to see Meyer nod. “Good. I’ll see you this evening. We can discuss everything then.” 

It was weird. It was weird to think they could plan ahead like that, could talk of “this evening” as something real, something they knew for certain would arrive. He wondered what they’d talk about. He wondered if he’d already be dead. 

Charlie followed AR from the room without another word. He ate in silence with Anna. He let Carolyn dress him for the arena without saying anything at all. 

It wasn’t until he was boarded onto the hovercraft on its way to the arena that he realized he’d never given Meyer a message for his family. 

There were a lot of people he didn’t give a last goodbye. 

* * *

He kept his back straight as he strode down the hallway. It was just like AR went over with him, time and time again. He clenched and unclenched one hand into a fist, the only outward sign of nerves. But he wouldn’t let anyone see him sweat. Even if it was all a disaster—and that was a very real possibility—he’d keep his composure. He’d be respected for it; he’d show them better. 

He reached the door at the end of the hall. For a moment, he paused, sighed, and steeled himself. 

Meyer entered the room with all the certainty he could muster into his small frame. He found the station for District 12 right away, towards the back, and he spared only a quick sweep of the room as he passed. As he knew to expect, he was far younger than anyone else. Many of the mentors sat in silence at their stations, while a few chatted with one another in small groups. From what AR said, friendships formed between mentors over the years, even between districts. 

Some glanced up at him as he passed; some ignored him. No doubt there was mingled curiosity in the new mentor, or disdain for the young kid who’d killed their tributes just last year. District 1’s mentor Masseria gave him a particularly dirty look. Meyer’s fist clenched at his side; he tried not to remember Gyp’s weight on top of him or the chill of the water that had almost claimed them both. Meyer kept his chin up.

He recognized the sallow face of Nucky Thompson as he passed, the District 4 mentor for whom AR had nothing but unkind words. He was in conversation with a woman with blonde hair and a slow, drawling accent from another district. Meyer figured that must have been Sally Wheet; the jagged necklace of pearlized teeth gave that away. AR said that her Games had been in a tropical arena, with mutated crocodiles that had been designed too strong and killed most of the tributes. But Sally had managed to overcome one. She pulled the venomous teeth from its head and used them as daggers, stabbing and poisoning all the remaining tributes. Yet now, as she leaned against her station, she seemed almost amicable, friendly. The decorative tooth necklace glimmered against her throat. 

Some mentors wore their Games as accessories. Some wore it in their movements, or in the look in their eyes, or on their bodies. As Meyer reached his station, the mentor for District 11 offered a respectful nod. He had a deep scar cutting across the dark skin of his face. Meyer returned the gesture, but they didn’t speak. 

He was glad to reach the back of the room. He still felt conscious of the other mentors’ eyes on him, whether they were actually looking or not. AR had described most of the mentors to him in detail, sharing everything that he knew about their personalities, tactics, and victories. After all, he’d sat in that same chair, at the same station, for many years. Yet even with all that information, Meyer still felt like the outsider, a newcomer to something that had been established long before him. 

He was surprised, then, to be approached. 

The man limped over to Meyer’s station and extended a friendly hand. He walked with a cane, though Meyer didn’t know if it was an injury from his Games or simply from age. He was easily the oldest mentor in the room and there was something grandfatherly in the way he introduced himself as Johnny Torrio. Meyer couldn’t fathom why someone from District 2—who had victors upon victors under his tutelage—would spare him the time of day, let alone limp over for an introduction. But Meyer shook his hand all the same. 

“Do you know how this works?” he asked, in a kind voice weathered with age. 

Meyer nodded, tapping each of the dual monitors at his station. “One screen per tribute. It will display each of them during the Games,” he answered. The screens were still black, as they weren’t in the arena yet. But once the Games started, he’d have one screen for Anna, one for Charlie, tracking them for as long as they were alive. 

“And that—” Meyer continued, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling screen at the front of the room, currently bearing the Capitol seal “—shows the main camera. It plays whatever is being broadcast to the rest of Panem.” 

Only mentors got to see their tributes’ every moment. Meyer’s stomach had been twisting at the thought, ever since AR explained it to him. 

Torrio smiled and patted him on the back. “Very good. I’m not surprised, Rothstein isn’t the type to leave someone unprepared.” 

“Not when it suits him, no,” Meyer agreed with a shaky attempt at a smile. 

“You did good last year, kid,” Torrio said. Meyer said nothing and stared at his hand. “Ready for the next round?” 

“Well I’m not the one in the arena,” he mumbled. Despite the weight on his shoulders, the responsibility to keep Anna and Charlie alive, it didn’t seem fair to complain. After all, none of the mentors were going to try and kill him. Although Masseria certainly looked like he would enjoy it. 

Torrio shifted his cane to the other hand and sighed. “You’re always in that arena.”

Meyer glanced up at him—old face, one lazy eye, a heaviness in his shoulders—and he realized he didn’t know anything about Torrio’s Games. AR had never said a word about them. Maybe even AR didn’t know. 

“But the thing is, if you pull somebody outta there alive,” Torrio continued, gesturing the end of his cane towards the large screen, “It feels like you’re out too—just for a moment. That’s the trick, every year. That’s the trick.” 

* * *

The waiting grew more and more unbearable as each second dripped by.

Charlie paced the room, back and forth, back and forth. He was alone; AR stood on the other side, but they said nothing to each other. Charlie had almost forgotten he was there, until he heard AR clear his throat or turn a page in his notebook. He couldn’t figure out if AR was meant to be company in his last moments before the arena or if he was meant to stand guard against an escape. He was sure there were Peacekeepers on the other side of the door, even if he tried.

He turned again and stalked back to the opposite corner. It wasn’t wide enough and he crossed the space in only a few strides. He turned again. 

He kept one hand on his arm, nail digging into the bump on his bicep where they’d inserted a tracker. Even if he got past AR and the Peacekeepers, they’d still be able to find him. No matter what, they’d always be able to find his family. He pressed harder against the bump; the faint awareness of pain in the back of his mind was the only thing that seemed real through the fog. 

Finally, AR withdrew an intricate watch from the pocket of his black overcoat, laced through with decorative silver thread. “It’s almost 10 o'clock,” he announced. 

That was when the cameras started. That was when the countdown began. That was when all of Panem turned their eyes to watch—whether they wanted to or not. That was when the killing started—whether they wanted to or not. 

Charlie nodded in understanding, stepping onto the platform that would raise him up to the arena.

“Did you mean it?” he asked abruptly. With the blood rushing through his ears, body prickling with the knowledge that the Games would start any moment, he suddenly felt like he had to know. “When you said I had a chance?”

The words hung in the air between them. He could hear a distant whirring—some mechanics or another preparing the arena. AR took his time in answering, studying his watch for only a few more seconds, but to Charlie it felt like an eternity. Didn’t he understand the hurry, how few precious seconds were left to Charlie as a guarantee? 

“To make my living such as I do,” AR began slowly, finally meeting Charlie’s gaze, “I need to be an excellent liar.” 

_Reassuring_. 

He exhaled, thoughtfully pursed his lips, and continued. “I thought, at first, that it would help us both if you believed you had a chance.” 

“So you lied?” Charlie snapped, heat and rage drowning out the fear. His fists clenched; maybe his first kill would happen before the Games began. “You didn’t mean none of it?” 

The platform hummed beneath him. It started to rise on slow hydraulics. The last thing he saw was AR’s ghost of a smile. 

“I never said that I lied. I’ve merely changed my tactic,” he said. “Prove me wrong.” 

Charlie didn’t have the chance to respond. Everything went dark, for a moment, before he found himself in the blazing, blinding sun. 

**Author's Note:**

> chapter five on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/139634119939/hunger-games-the-boardwalk-chapter-5)


End file.
